


Dichotomy

by siao



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Angst, Blood and Gore, Canonical Character Death, Character Bashing, Child Abuse, Dubious Consent, F/M, Graphic Description, Hurt/Comfort, Language, M/M, Minor Character Death, Morally Ambiguous Character, Murder, Necromancy, Politics, Pureblood Culture, Romance, Slash, Slow Build, Violence, Wrong Boy-Who-Lived
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-06
Updated: 2017-08-28
Packaged: 2018-05-25 03:48:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 24,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6179062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siao/pseuds/siao
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it. Due to a careless mistake made a decade earlier, the life and fate of the boy who should have been the anointed hero was severely altered. Harry Potter is not the Boy-Who-Lived -- he was simply the boy others didn't notice until they were forced to, the brother to the Boy-Who-Lived. As he tries to navigate a world that refuses to see his worth, the drums of war begin to sound and Harry will soon finds himself facing the ultimate question: fight for the family that never cared for him, or let them (and the rest of the world) burn. </p><p> </p><p>This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prelude

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Invisible](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1024956) by [DebsTheSlytherinSnapeFan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DebsTheSlytherinSnapeFan/pseuds/DebsTheSlytherinSnapeFan). 



Chapter One

**PRELUDE**

 

 

 

Her fingers are restless with anxiety, knuckles bleached white by the force of her grip. Rounded nails bite into her husband’s wrist as she uses him as an anchor to the present world, despite the looming despair and acidic taste of truth. The words only minutes before spoken swing like a gallows noose, waiting to be wrapped around the necks of Lily Potter and her family. Her slender fingers brush over her protruding abdomen, lips trembling with a turmoil of emotions she could barely subdue. “Could you,” she begins to say, voice small and tight, “could you repeat that again?”

Desperately, she wishes to have misheard. _Please_ , she thinks as her eyes pinch shut and a lone tear spills forward, descending her cheek. _Please, let it be wrong. Please._ Her pleas go unanswered, her prayers discarded. Her husband’s hand is a boulder on her shoulders, crushing away the denial because Lily knew she had not heard wrong. “I have reason to believe that Voldemort will attack your children .”

“No,” she whispers just as her husband, James Potter, asked, “Why?”

Albus Dumbledore does not speak for too long, and it would be the first time that Lily and James would ever see him appear so aged, so fatigued. The elderly wizard examines them from the top of half-moon spectacles, brilliant blues irises dimmed of merriment and sparkle. “For reasons, I cannot disclose,” he says gravely, a thick underlying of regret and anguish. “I can only trust that you will take my words to heart, and advise that you and your children go into hiding for the time being.”

“Albus, please,” Lily said, moisture rimming the whites of her eyes. “Please, you have to tell me why-why my children? What could they possibly ever do to Voldemort that would warrant their death?”

“That, I cannot say for sure,” Dumbledore admits in a quiet voice, weathered hands clasping together as he levels the couple with a heavy look of forlorn. “They are but children – not yet even born, and already burdened with a fate no child should have . . . “

Lily falls silent, unable to speak as her words are replaced with barely smothered sobs of depression. James keeps his hold on her shoulder, providing what comfort he could in his own time of troubles. He simply could not wrap his mind around the notion that his children, his unborn sons, could ever be conceived as threat necessary of eliminating. Grounding his teeth together in anger, he heaves great breath and nods slowly, painfully. “We’ll do it. We’ll go into hiding.”

“At your earliest convenience, I will perform the Fidelius Charm. You only need to find yourself a Secret Keeper,” informed Dumbledore. “For now, I suggest you both go home.”

 _And spend what time you still have, together,_ remains unsaid, but clear. James nods stiffly once more, assisting Lily back onto her feet. He murmurs a farewell to the Headmaster of Hogwarts before they both grab a handful of Floo powder and step through the emerald flames. Left to his own accord, Albus Dumbledore allows his body to slouch over with age and a world of problems. Lord Voldemort was at the height of power, and cause reigns supreme. No longer was there blind innocence or safety – every night civilians (Muggleborn, Muggles, and Halfbloods) are snatched from their beds only to return dead and mutilated come morning. No one dared to leave their homes or enter Diagon Alley in fear of the Death Eaters who patrol the cobbled streets in search of prey. A coup d'état was no longer an option, and Albus truly feared that Voldemort would achieve the unthinkable. Absolute power.

The only silver lining to this cloud of oppression that clutched the magical community of Britain was a prophecy. Courtesy of Sybil Trelawney, Dumbledore recalls with astounding clarity the night he had heard those words:

 

_The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches_

_Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies_

_And the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not_

_And either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives_

_The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies_

 

To think when he’d invited her to discuss her termination as Hogwarts Divination professor, he would also hear the very words that would determine the fate of their world. Like he’d informed the Potter’s of the impending danger, Dumbledore had also spoken to Alice and Frank Longbottom about the impending dangers their own child faced. Each has defied Voldemort, openly, thrice and each were expecting sons. In the months to come a child will be herald the hope of the wizarding world – the light in these dark times. Yet, Dumbledore stills worries for while this news lifted some burden from his heart, he was not the only one to be graced with the words of the fate that night.

For now, he can only wait to see the outcomes of individual decisions before making any plans of his own.

* * *

 

In the months to come, Lily and James would have already settled themselves into a routine as new parents. At four months old, their eldest, Fleamont, already showed himself to be a high maintenance child. He would cry at any offense, be it not being feed in time or wearing a soiled nappy for a minute too long. He loathed being bathed and would cry himself red in the face and beat at anything his little, balled fist could reach. Their youngest, Harry, was not partial to crying three-quarters of the day. If anything, he slept a bit more than Lily would have liked, and only cried when hunger struck or he couldn’t sleep. In all, parenthood had proven itself to be a full-time position for the twenty-year-old couple.

They managed, however, and as their children grew and the seasons came and went, Lily and James begun to feel a bit more at ease. In the backs of their minds, there still remained a nagging presence of worry and anxious anticipation that at any moment, they would be attacked and their world would dissolve into ash. Dumbledore’s words are a shadow in their lives, but still, they live on.

Currently, they are in the midst of a small birthday celebration with their friends. It was being hosted in the renovated garden of number twelve, Grimmauld Place, and as Lily watched James entertained their boys with sparks of magic from his wand, a surge of bitterness blossoms in her chest. Voldemort, if he would have things go his way, would take this all from her. Her husband, her life, her children – everything. Taking a drink of her Butterbeer, Lily is jolted from her thoughts by a heavy-handed pat on the shoulder. She turns to face the grinning, handsome face of Sirius Black and offers him a smile in turn.

“Sirius, enjoying the party, I hope,” she says, returning to her focus to her family.

“Course I am,” he responds, “your little buggers are a year old and this is about as happiest as I’ve been in ages.”

“We haven’t had much to be happy about before,” Lily mutters lowly, taking another swing of her drink before shaking her head. “Anyhow, Sirius – there’s been something James and I have been meaning to talk to you about. Can we speak somewhere private?”

Sirius nods and escorts her back into the parlor. Casting a silencing charm behind him, Sirius waits for Lily to speak. The vermillion-haired woman doesn’t say a word for some time, her focus on the snoozing portrait of Orion Black II before she releases a heavy sigh and turns to face the Black Lord. “James and I think it would be best if we change Secret Keeper’s.”

“Lily – “ Sirius started to say, startled by the announcement.

“It isn’t because we don’t trust you, Sirius,” Lily interjected quickly, “we do. We trust you with not only our lives but the lives of our children.”

“Why, then?”

“Because Voldemort knows. He knows and he’s coming after us – he’s already orphaned Neville Longbottom – and the boy himself had barely survived Bellatrix’s attack. We’re next, and he’ll be coming after you because you are the logical option, Sirius. He knows that we would trust you with our location.”

Sirius, lips thin in thought, threads his fingers through his hair. He’d been aware of the dangers that came with being their (the Potter’s) Secret Keeper from the moment he’d agreed to it. He had been ready to die. “Lily, I know – I know and I’m ready. I’m willing.”

“But we aren’t,” Lily countered. “We won’t allow you to die if there is an alternative option.”

“And who would that be?”

“Peter Pettigrew.”

* * *

 

_“No one would ever suspect you.”_

Peter Pettigrew is an unassuming man. His mousy disposition and rodent appearance aside, he did not have the bravery or charm that his group of friends embodied. He was short and plain, hair receding and teeth large and crooked. So it had both hurt him and surprised him when James and Sirius had invited him over for a pint of drink. When they had requested that he be the new Secret Keeper for James and his family, Peter had been giddy – happy that finally, his friends were seeing him as a valuable member of their group. As someone, they could trust.

_“No one would ever suspect you.”_

Peter knew what phrase meant, the implications behind it. No one would suspect weak, talentless Peter Pettigrew of being the keeper of such an important duty. No, no one would ever even consider him as a possibility. So he had agreed, begrudgingly, and for the days to come, Peter would also contemplate what to do with such vital information. Just as no one would ever believe that the Potter’s would appoint them their Secret Keeper, they would also never dare to believe that Peter would be a Death Eater. But such information if given to the wrong hands, would be the end of the only friends he’d ever known. James never treated him as badly as Sirius had, and Lily – Lily had always been kind to him. And those children, they were innocent. . . could he really do such a thing to them?

He was at a standstill. Between his duty to his lord, and his loyalty to their cause, could he truly sacrifice the lives of innocent children for his own sake?

At the burning of his mark, Peter shakes away the thought and prepares himself for the meeting. It occurred every fortnight, and during those few hours, information pertaining to the movement, whether they be successes or failures, are exchanged. Peter shudders in pity for anyone foolish enough to present his lord with the ill-favored news.

Despite his attempts to fortitude his mind and keep his focus on what was ahead, Peter found his thoughts retreating to the Potter’s and his own status as their Secret Keeper. Upon his arrival to the stronghold of Lord Voldemort, Peter situates himself to the very end of the long table, slouched over in his chair and watching through hooded eyes as the meeting commenced. Bellatrix was the first to begin, preening like a peacock when their lord praised her for her achievements. Peter didn’t think it was so grand, she only killed a few Muggles, took out the Undersecretary to the Minister of Magic – nothing worth such high words.

“Ah, Wormtail, any news to share?” came the low, hissing voice of his lord and Wormtail jerked his head up in terror. Serpentine orbs fix onto his colorless face, thin lips stretched into a smile that brought shivers down Peter’s back.

“My – my lord,” stuttered Peter as he rose on shaken legs. “My lord – I have – I have. . . “He trails off to swallow the lump in his throat, stubby fingers twisting the fabric of his worn robes. Lily and the kids – Lily and the kids. . . .

“Go on, Wormtail, we haven’t all night to waste,” said Voldemort, voice soft, patronizing.

It reminded Peter of Sirius.

“My lord I know where the Potter’s are hiding!”

A hushed silence and more than a dozen pairs of eyes snapping onto Peter. The most notable are black and pitless, obsidian and simmering with wrath. Voldemort leans forward in his throne-like chair, long, spidery fingers caressing the head of the large serpent splayed across his chest. “And how did you come upon such information?”

“They made me their Secret Keeper, my lord,” Peter revealed in one breath. “They knew that you would come for Black and decided that I would be better because – because no one would assume they would choose me.”

“Fortunate does not favor the foolish,” his lord murmurs to himself before his eyes harden and minuscule smile melts away. “Their location, Wormtail.”

“My lord,” Peter begins to say, burying at the swell of guilt in his heart. “The Potter’s can be found in Godric’s Hollow.”

“You have done well, Wormtail. It would seem even spineless rodents have their uses,” says Voldemort and Peter flushes when a chorus of snickers fill the cavernous room. “You shall be rewarded, of course.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Peter whispers as he sits back down, heart in his stomach.

He had a made a terrible mistake.

* * *

 

There was nothing to suggest that on that Hallows Eve night of nineteen eighty-one that lives two children would forever be altered. He appeared like a wraith, death itself on the streets of Godric’s Hollow. The night was cold and windy, moist from the rain hours before. The street have emptied of Muggle children who had been out-and-about celebrating Halloween in costumes and bags filled to the brim with candy. A disquieting silence would follow where he treads, a darkness so profound that the night sky is consumed by the velvet entity. Stars flicker out of sight and street lambs fade into nothingness as he passes. He fingered the handle of his wand, a thrum of power and purpose exuding from him as he glided up the street, destination only feet away

As he neared, he felt the wards surrounding the small cottage flicker and waver, cracking beneath the proximity of his power. He drew his wand from beneath his cloak, giving only the barest of movement to remove the Fidelius Charm that had been placed over the home. Through the living room window, he could see James Potter entertaining his children with conjured bubbles, and only seconds later would Lily Potter step into the room with two steaming cups. The small gate made not a sound when he pushes it open, and with a flick of the wrist, the door to the home is blown off its hinges. James Potter came rushing out, wand in hand and crying out, “Lily! It’s him! Take the boys and run!”

Had his focus been not on warning his wife – who foolishly darted up the stairs – perhaps he would have had the chance to properly protect himself. But, alas, Fate was a cruel Mistress. With an insouciant wave of his wand, Voldemort watches as James was flung backward. The man collides against the wall in a thundering blow, skull knocking against the kitchen doorframe before he slumps over on the floor, blood protruding from his head wound and mouth. Pathetic, really.

He is no rush when he makes his way upstairs. The foolish girl had left her wand in the living room, her fear palpable. She would not run – no, she would try to bargain away her own life for the lives of her children. Voldemort would have taken pleasure in slaughtering her like the filth she was, had he not promised to spare the chit. Lord Voldemort, after all, always kept his promises. He finds Lily in the nursery, standing between him and the children he sought after.

“Stand aside, silly girl,” Voldemort says. “You don’t need to die for them.”

“Please! Have mercy!”

“Stand aside. Now.”

Lily Potter stood her ground. “Not my children!” she cried out. “I won’t give them to you! Take me! Take me instead!”

His patience with the woman runs its course, and with a snarl, Voldemort hisses out, “ _Stupefy_.”

Lily does not dodge the spell in time, and as quickly as her husband has succumbed, she fell to the ground unconscious. With their shield gone, Voldemort steps over the woman and scrutinize the children who were prophesied to be his condemners. Only one would be equal to him in power, only one would truly destroy him. The children were crying, the loudest hazel eyed and black-haired. His teeth grind together. He had always loathed the whining of children in the orphanage. Setting his wand point to the smooth, unblemished forward of the youngest whose watery green eyes stare at him in uncertainty and fear, Voldemort utters the words that would seal their fates.

“ _Avada Kedavra_.”

The green light bathed the nursery in its sickly embrace, illuminating the cribs and the occupants of the room. His triumph is short-lived for he broke not even seconds later. Torn from flesh and bone, broken so deeply that he knew not what comfort of death was – he only knew of pain for that was all he had become; pain and terror. He screamed in agony, a shriek so horrid that it reacted to his destructive magic, and as he broke further so did his surroundings. Magic most ominous clutched onto the wailing children, and as he flees from the destruction he had created, he leaves with the youngest a portion of his tattered being. It burrows into the boys’ chest, close to his heart and leaves a curiously shaped mark, almost like lightning.

The cries of the children eventually became the siren that awoke Lily from her forced slumber. Crawling toward the crib, shaken and disorientated, she breathes a sigh of relief when she sees that they are both alive and well. Back on her feet, she takes them both into her arms, and upon examining them for injuries, found Fleamont bearing an angry scar across the forehead that bleed profusely. Harry looked to be virtually unharmed, so she places him back into the crib to wipe the blood from Fleamont’s face. The scar continues to bleed, leading her to believe that Voldemort had, in fact, attempted to use a dark curse on her son. Wrapping a torn piece of cloth around his forehead to keep the blood from his eyes, Lily picks Harry back up and hurries downstairs to check on her husband.

“James!” she cries out when she sees him sprawled out on the floor and bleeding. “Oh my God! James – James are you – “

“Lily.”

Spinning around, Lily quite nearly broke out in tears at the sight of Albus Dumbledore. The ancient wizard is quick assess the situation, and even swifter in providing a comforting hand on the shoulder. “Albus,” the red-haired woman sobbed, “Albus he came for us – he came for us – Peter – Peter told him!”

“Peter Pettigrew was your Secret Keeper?’ inquired Dumbledore as he moved to examine James, healing the bleeding cut at the base of his skull and turning him over. James gives a groan but remains unconscious. “I was under the impression that Sirius – “

“We switched them,” Lily explained through her tears, “because Voldemort – Voldemort would know he was our first choice. We thought Peter – we thought we could trust him!”

“I see,” murmurs Dumbledore as he stands. Lily kneels before her husband, arms trembling under the weight of her children. Dumbledore, upon seeing the makeshift bandage around Fleamont’s forehead, asked, “Is that where –?”

Lily nods and kisses away the tears from the eyes of her boy’s. “It won’t stop bleeding. I think Voldemort – I think Voldemort might have left a mark on him.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” responded Lily, adamantly.

Dumbledore, after digesting the provided information, rests his hand on the young mother’s shoulder. “We have much to discuss, Lily. For now, it’ll be best if you and the boy’s head off the Hogwarts. Madam Pomfrey will see to you.”

“What about James?”

“I will bring him along.”

Lily thanks, Dumbledore in a breathless voice before she retreats into the living room. It was only after the sound of Floo operating had reached his ears did Dumbledore grab James Potter by the shoulders and Apparated himself and the unconscious man to Hogwarts. After depositing the man in the infirmary, Dumbledore sits in his office as the family is looked over by Poppy. To think that it would be Fleamont who would be chosen and that the boy himself would carry such a grotesque scar. . . Dumbledore shakes his head. This was not the outcome he had expected but embraced nonetheless.

Conjuring himself a goblet from the kitchens, Dumbledore watches as it fills with golden liquid. He holds the silver cup in the air, whispering a quiet, “To Fleamont Potter – the Boy-Who-Lived.”

 


	2. Lesson Learned

 

 

Chapter Two

**Lesson Learned**

 

 

Harry Potter was an unusual little boy, and at nearly six years of age, it would become apparent just how much of an anomaly he was. To the keen observer, it would become apparent that in spite of having grown up in the same household as his older brother, Fleamont, the twins lived vastly different lives. At first glance, nothing would appear amiss in the Potter household as Lily and James held themselves in a respectable manner, and their children well behaved. A layer deeper, however, and the truth is a very unsettling.

Something had shifted within Lily and James months after the defeat of Voldemort, and like a leech that feeds off the blood of others, they latched onto their oldest son with a fervor. Whatever paternal affection and concern they had for Harry waned and ultimately faded as they lavished Fleamont with both time, adoration and mounting pride. While Harry was given the basic necessities, such as being bathed, fed and clothed, it would only be given after Fleamont had been taken care of and done begrudgingly. By four years of old, Harry had started to become self-sufficient. He would bath himself regularly, clothe himself, and feed himself food that took little to no preparation time or the use of a stove.

Both children were not only treated differently but also looked and act differently. Whereas Fleamont had turned out to be the spitting image of their father, James, Harry did not favor either parent in appearance. He was a wisp of a boy with large, pale green eyes and a small, softly shaped face. He had not inherited the trademark Potter hair (jet black and unruly birds nest that no comb or spell could tame), his was a shade that was too dark to be considered red, and not dark enough to be thought of as black or dark brown. It fell in soft, tight curls around his shoulders, though he much preferred to keep it brushed back and out of his eyes.

In disposition, where Fleamont would cry at any offense and was spoiled to a t, often to the point where he would whine and rage whenever things did not go his way or he was not given what he desired, Harry was a sweet-natured boy, placid, and virtually mute as he rarely spoke. That being, of course, there was never really anyone he could talk to. Fleamont did not care for his company, and his parents saw him as little more than an annoyance. After one too many attempts at gaining their approval (whether it was showing them how advanced his vocabulary was, how clean he kept his room, or how he read books years beyond his age group) Harry eventually elected to keep to himself. His parents did not care, his brother was little more than a bully, and anyone who even bothered to notice him quickly forgot he ever existed.

So, it would come as no surprise that the first ever friend Harry would make wouldn’t even be human. On the summer of July eighty-six, Harry was reading in his mother’s rose garden when a curious little sound caught his attention. Putting down the worn copy of _Advanced Potions Making, 6 th Edition, _Harry’s brows furrow as he listens closely. It sounded like hissing – a snake, perhaps? Crawling toward the trimmed bush of English roses, Harry is quickly startled to his feet when a pair of yellow eyes peer at him.

 _“Stupid human,”_ says the creature and Harry scrambled backward in shock when the little garden snake slithers out from the bush. It scrutinizes him for a moment and makes a sound that Harry believed to be a laugh. _“Scared you, I did.”_

 _“You can talk!”_ Harry said in shock. “ _I didn’t know snakes could speak English.”_

 _“We don’t speak Human language, you idiot man-child,”_ said the serpent in a tone that suggested it thought Harry very stupid indeed. _“You are a Speaker, man-child. You speak the language of the snakes.”_

_“Snakes have their own language?”_

_“Of course we do!”_ snapped the serpent. _“Do you think we just make nonsensical noises for the sake of it?”_

Harry shakes his head in appeasement, but in truth, he had always assumed that such. Crouching down in front of the snake, he beamed at it in delight. _“My name is Harry. Who are you?”_

_“I am me, who else would I be?”_

_“I mean; do you have a name?”_

_“No.”_

Snakes, Harry decided very early on, were very rude, if not a bit full of themselves. Still, he was eager to know to know more about the other, as well as learn why he could speak to snakes, to begin with. _“Can I give you a name?”_ he inquired hopefully, eyes bright.

 _“Snakes do not need names, man-child. They are meaningless to us.”_ It moved towards Harry, winding itself around the slender wrist of the boy and flicking its tongue out to taste the boy's skin. Magic fizzled onto its tongue, informing it that the boy was in fact, a wizard.

 _“But everything has a name,”_ Harry counters softly, giggling quietly at the ticklish sensation. _“And I don’t want to call you snake forever.”_

Slitten, yellow orbs settled onto Harry’s face, and the serpent tilts its head in consideration before it gives a flick of its tail. _“You may name me, then, man-child.”_

 _“I’ll think of something good for you, then_ ,” Harry promised with a breathless excitement, eyes shining with unshed tears, and he asks in a quiet voice, _“Does that mean that we – that we’re friends now?”_

_“Yes, I suppose so.”_

His heart had never felt so light before, so warmed with joy. For the first time in his life, Harry had a friend.

* * *

 

Silas, as Harry had decided to call his new friend, had proven himself to be good company. Though he had his moments in which he was utterly rude and judgmental, he was never quite mean to Harry.

While he was overjoyed with the fact he had a friend of his very own, he was still always wary that he would one day wake up and Silas would be gone. Silas himself had taken to sleeping in Harry’s room after a close encounter with Fleamont and his brood of friends. Ron Weasley, a tall, gangly freckled redhead who Fleamont grew close to after the many times their parents had set up playdates for him with children of prominent Light affiliated families, had spotted Silas sunbathing near the small pond and had thought it would good fun to throw rocks at the poor thing. He’d returned to Harry's room highly agitated and promising to bite the lot of them all if the opportunity ever presented itself.

Currently, the pair were in Harry’s room. In comparison to Fleamont’s bedroom which was equally three times the size and filled with a copious amount of trinkets, toys, and a bed far too large for a boy his age, Harry’s bedroom was sparsely furnished. It held a single bed and frame, no carpeting, a bookshelf, and wardrobe. There were no toys to be seen, and if it were not for the overstuffed bookshelf and a pair of shoes near the door, anyone would think this room was vacant.

Harry was reading a book on lycanthropy titled _Werewolves: The Social Order_. It was rather a violent biography of the species themselves, depicting mobile images of the great beast in motion. Silas was curled around his shoulders, somewhere between being fully awake and slumbering. _“My birthday is in a few days,”_ Harry said conversationally as he changes a page.

_“Birthday? What’s that?”_

_“It’s when humans celebrate their birth, Silas, so they know how old they are,”_ Harry explained, bookmarking his page and slipping the book under his mattress. The last thing he needed was to be caught reading books out of the family library. The memory of his punishment when his dad had caught him was still fresh in his mind.

 _“Mm, seems like a waste of time if you ask me,”_ Silas grumbled. _“You humans do pointless things.”_

Harry, laughing softly, rose to his feet and stretched out his stiff limbs. “ _Well, you’d think so, but we humans like to celebrate with cake and balloons and friends and family.”_

Silas, nudging Harry under the chin with his head, asked, _“Do you do these celebrations with your den mates also?”_

Here, Harry pauses. His merry moods flicker away and smile fades. His birthday – it was never celebrated in his home. Despite having been born on the same day as Fleamont, Harry was never involved in the get-together. He didn’t receive presents or was welcomed to join the party. Every year since he was one was spent in his room, locked out of sight and ignored. Shaking his head to clear, Harry tried to look on the upside of things. He knew how to make the cake after the many times he’d watched his mom make it, and had even made plans to make a little one for himself a day early and celebrating with Silas. He didn’t need presents, as nice as they would have been to have.

 _“No,”_ he says at last, _“but we can have a party of our own.”_

 _“Hmph,”_ said Silas as he closed his eyes. _“Take me outside. I am hungry now.”_

Harry complies without a fuss, opening the door to his room and peering out into the hallway. It was empty, but still, he spends a moment to listen to the telltale signs of footsteps. Upon hearing nothing, he makes his out the room and creeps down the stairs. _“You are going too slow,”_ hissed Silas, irate.

 _“I know, but we can’t get caught,”_ Harry responds placidly, rounding a corner and heading toward the back door. _“They might take you away from me if we’re – “_

“MUM! HARRY’S GOT A SNAKE!”

Harry freezes, his eyes wide as saucers as he stiffly turns to face his gaping brother. Fleamont was pointing at Silas, surprise written on his face, disgust in his eyes. Harry cannot bring himself to move, cannot flee even as his parents can thundering into the archway, wands in hand. Lily shrieks at the sight of Silas wound around his neck, and the snake hisses at her threateningly.

“He was talking to it, Mum!” said Fleamont, oblivious to the way his parent’s faces bleached off-color, their horror evident. “I saw him! He was hissing at it and it answered back!”

“Lily,” James breathed, “take Monti upstairs.”

“James – “Lily tried to say.

“Go,” James interjected firmly, wand point leveled at Silas’s head.

 _“Run man-child! Run or let me bite him!”_ Silas was spitting out, fangs bared in anger.

Lily takes Fleamont by the hand, ushering the boy out of the corridor and up the stairs despite his protest. Left alone with his father, Harry shrinks away into a corner when his father approaches him, trembling hands wrapped around Silas’s body in a futile attempt to calm the frightened serpent. “Dad,” he starts to say.

“I always knew you were a bit off, Harry,” James said venomously, voice cold. “But this-this is a new level of freakishness, even for you.”

Harry felt his heart plummet to his stomach. “Please, dad – he didn’t – Silas won’t hurt anyone.”

“Hand it over, now.”

“Please,” Harry tried to plead again, voice wet with tears, shaken as he felt moisture streaking down his cheeks. “Don’t hurt him…”

 _Crack!_ The pain flares like a fire-poker to the cheek, the sting atrocious. Harry is too shocked by the slap to react, too choked by his tears to speak. It wasn’t the first time he’d been slapped, but it had never been this vicious – light whacks at the back of the head swats to the hand – but never a full on smack that busted his bottom lip. He loosens their grip on Silas, and his friend is torn away by James. “No!” Harry cries out, shaken from his stupor at the sound of the frail body hitting the wall.

Harry scrambles onto his knees toward Silas, the hurt cries from the snake knives to his chest. He didn’t get far – James kicks him out the way, foot knocking the air from his lungs, and he rolls onto his side, holding his bruised chest. James points his wand at Silas, uttering a sharp, “Incedio!” and Harry can only watch as his only friend his brunt alive. Silas’s body curls into itself, the air smelling of roasted meat and fire. What’s left of Harry’s one and only friend is ashes, and even that is banished away by James. Harry stares at the spot where Silas once existed, and his heart breaks. It tears itself into sheds and what is left is a gaping hole that bleeds profusely.

“Why?” he asks in a trembling voice, hands balled into a fist as he stares at his stoic father. “Why did you kill him? He didn’t do anything wrong!”

Another kick is delivered, this one knocking Harry straight onto his back, and he coughs, tasting blood on his tongue. He opens his mouth to find his dad had turned his wand on him, face pinched and flushed red. “It was a snake, the very embodiment of evil itself. Anyone who associates themselves – who talks to snakes, deserve the same fate.”

With that said, James turns on his heel and walks off, leaving Harry to his own accord. Harry doesn’t move from off the floor for a long time, his body hurting too greatly, his spirit too trampled. He turns his head to stare at the spot where his friend was murdered – killed despite having been innocent. He cries for himself and for the friend who’d died because he couldn’t protect him.

* * *

 

Under the commands of his parents, Harry was to never speak to another snake again, lest the consequences are more dire than the death of another innocent. His brother had sworn not to say anything, and as easily as sweeping up trash, the issue was buried away and Harry found himself further ostracized. His birthday was spent in mourning in the dark confines of his bedroom that had been stripped of its bookshelf. Besides himself with grief, Harry is numbed to the core and listening to the festivities occurring downstairs. A chorus of “Happy Birthday to you, Happy birthday to you,” resonates throughout the manor, and he is bitterly reminded of the cake he’d planned to make, of the small celebration he would have had for the first time with Silas. Now like every other dream he’d ever had since he could remember them, they had been cruelly torn from him and shredded before his eyes.

He felt like a fool for ever thinking he could have friends, or anyone, really. His own family made it very clear that they neither wanted nor cared for him, his ever existence a bother in their minds. He was a burden they couldn’t get rid of because it would reflect negatively on them if they were to abandon their other son. While Harry did not have the same notoriety that his brother and parents did, and was scarcely ever mentioned in the many tomes that had sprung up since the attack six years ago, Harry wasn’t a total ghost to the wizarding world. They (like his family) choose to write off his existence as minor, unimportant.

He now knew that no one cared what happened to him, or even how he felt. They didn’t care about his achievements or the truth that Lily and James denied whenever they told others that Harry had yet to show bouts of accidental magic despite the fact he had a strong affinity to it. They didn’t care because Harry wasn’t the Boy-Who-Lived and that alone made him useless in their eyes.

If his heart hadn’t already closed itself off, Harry would have cried even more. His tears had dried already, his resolve set. He would never again allow himself to be hurt, this he so solemnly swore.

 

 

 

 


	3. Ollivander's Omen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was rather short - actually, all the chapters I've written so far are shorter than what I normally write, but I will make chapters after this one around 4-5k. Also, as I'm sure you'll notice, as the story progresses I will demote and add tags. Characters, as well. So if you spot a change, don't worry too much about it, just read on.

 

Chapter Three

**Ollivander’s Omen**

 

At nearly eleven years old, Harry would like to think he knew the mechanical workings of the world, or at the very least he’d adopted the skill of reading people, and thus determining whether or not they were worth the effort of speaking too. It was, primarily, not. Harry was sitting the kitchen, book in hand and absentmindedly spooning porridge into his mouth while Lily wrestled with a screaming three-year-old Rosemary into her high chair. Rosemary Elizabeth Potter was born a month before the twin’s eighth birthday, and like Fleamont she had the misfortune of inheriting the Potter’s men unruly jet-black hair and hazel eyes. Lily was adamant that Rosemary would grow to become exactly like her, to which Harry sincerely hoped would never occur as one Lily Potter was bad enough.

Turning to the next page of _Hogwarts: A History_ , Harry doesn’t look up when Fleamont and James came barreling in through the kitchen door, a roar of laughter following them. The pair held the latest model of broomsticks in hand, the Nimbus 2000, and costume ordered Quidditch robes that James declared was necessary as Fleamont was going to become the greatest Quidditch player of his time.

“Hello, dear,” Lily cooed at Fleamont, swooping down to cup his face and press a number of kisses to it despite his protest. “Did you have fun with your father?”

“It was wicked cool, mum!” Fleamont announced as he sat down across from Harry. “Dad taught me this new trick and I almost did it without falling.”

Harry snorts quietly under his breath. James probably saved him from falling on his arse just to keep his poor, wonderful boy’s pride in check. Fleamont had the Quidditch skills of an octopus on land. Lily gives James a shriveled glare, put off by the thought that her precious son had nearly hurt himself and James answers with a smile and a quick kiss on her cheek. Rosemary is also kissed by her father before James sits down next to Harry.

“You have to be more careful with him, James,” Lily berated as she fixed her husband and son a plate of scrambled eggs, toast, and pancakes. She hadn’t even offered Harry one when he’d come downstairs for breakfast, the shrew that she was.

“Monti’s a tough lad, Lils,” James said, “after all he _did_ defeat You-Know-Who.”

“Who! Who!” chanted Rosemary, clapping her hands with excited giggles and sending bits of mashed peas in the air.

“The toughest,” Fleamont said with a puffing of his chest, shoveling another spoonful of eggs into his mouth. “Dad says I’m going to be the top of my classes in Hogwarts, and be Prefect and Head Boy too.”

“Of course, you will, sweetums,” said Lily, fondly. “Who else would they pick but you? You’re the best, and only, option there is.”

Harry is quick to deafen his ears to the conversation surrounding him. When Lily and James began their “Fleamont is the best” tirade as he so cleverly titled it, it made him feel physically ill to the stomach. Whether it out of jealousy or anger, he never cared to decipher. Harry simply knew that he loathed having to listen to his parents, to anyone, really, bestow undeserved praises on his lard of a brother. Fleamont was, in all sense, a rotten boy without a Knut worth’s of common sense in that inflated, egotistic head of his. He hated to study and preferred to have anything and everything handed to him. He was entitled and with equal fervor took great pleasure in bullying and belittling others – mostly, Harry – though James proclaimed that Fleamont was simply pranking others. A bully was a bully at the end of the day, least in Harry’s mind, that is. To make matters worse, Harry was also quite sure that Lily was brainwashing Rosemary into hero worshipping Fleamont. He’d concluded as much after the many nights he’d overheard her whispering the story of the Hallows Eve attack to her.

Finishing the last of his porridge, Harry sets his book aside and walks towards the sink to clean up his mess. It was as he was rinsing the soap suds from the bowl that the flutter of movement behind the window caught his notice. It was an owl, and clasped in its beak were envelopes. Harry dries his hands and opens the window, allowing the messenger bird inside the kitchen just as Fleamont cried out “It’s here! It’s here!”

While the rest of his family fawns over Fleamont, Lily bringing out the camera to capture the picture of him holding his Hogwarts letter, Harry picks his own up from off the table and offers the delivery owl a bit of egg off Fleamont’s plate while he was otherwise preoccupied. He’d always wanted a pet as he still remains without any friends, but after the ordeal with Silas, he couldn’t bear to bring himself to even consider such a thing in fear of what James might do to it. Petting the owl before it took its leave from the noisy room, Harry sits back in his chair and caresses the wax seal in wonder and joy. Finally, he was going to Hogwarts. He opens it carefully, not wanting to disturb the contents or tear the envelope into shreds like his brother had. Pulling out the folded letters, Harry opens the first one to read:

 

“ _Dear Mr. Potter,_

_We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of_

_Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment._

_Term begins on September 1 st. We await your owl by no later than July 31st._

_Yours Sincerely,_

_Minerva McGonagall,_

_Deputy Headmistress”_

 

The first year supply list was no different from the ones Harry had seen when he’d unearthed Lily’s in the attic. Even the reading material was no far off, despite the decades between them. Tucking his letters back into its envelope, Harry puts it away in the pocket of his loose-fitting trousers (Lily and James’s didn’t feel it prudent to buy him his own clothing as Fleamont’s old jumpers and trousers were still in good condition) and cradles his head in the palm of his hands, watching as his brother jumped around in excitement.

“Can we go to Diagon Alley today?” Fleamont asked Lily. “I want to go today, mum!”

“Of course, we’ll go today!” James said with a jovial laugh, ruffled Fleamont’s hair with a glean of pride in his eyes.

“We’ll have to celebrate, as well,” Lily added as she struggled to clean Rosemary’s mouth before deciding it was a lost cause and vanishing the mess from her daughter with a wave of her wand. “This is a big day for Monti.”

Harry rolls his eyes and sighs in exasperation. Leave it to his parents to completely forget that he, too, was going to Hogwarts that coming term. Getting up from his seat, Harry makes his way into the living room where the Floo network was still active. He grabs a handful of powder, steps into the emerald flames, and drops the Floo powder just as he says, “Diagon Alley.”

Floo travel was never a favorite method of transportation for him, but it was the most convenient and the only way he could come and go from the house. Stumbling out of the fireplace of the Leaky Cauldron, Harry shakes the powder from his hair and clothing before moving along. Tom, the owner, notices him, and without saying a word to a boy, escorts him to the wall and opens it. Harry mumbles a polite thank you and sets on his way to Gringotts. After James had let slip about the trust funds that were step up at the time of their birth by his financial manager, Harry had made a habit of visiting the bank once in a fortnight to take out a couple of Sickles for a book from Flourish and Blotts. He was careful with his money as Ragok, the manager, had told him that his monthly allowance was only fifty-galleons (Fleamont, as he’d let slip, had no such limitations) and received only five percent of James’s annual income.

Diagon Alley had always been a favorite place of Harry’s to visit. It was lively, bursting with activities and a culture that never failed to leave him breathless in amazement. From the outdoor market stands that groan under the weight of products and trinkets to the shops that sold robes and broomsticks – Harry looked them all over in spite of having seen it all before. Visiting Gringotts first to take out his allowed amount for that month, Harry was bidding Griphook farewell when he spotted his family. James and Lily hadn’t even glanced his way, more focused on the whirlwind of attention coming their way from all sides. Exiting the bank, Harry starts on his shopping for the day, consulting his supplies list when he gets to Flourish and Blotts. At Madam Malkin’s, he was being fitted for the standard uniform when his family arrived at the shop. Immediately, all focus goes to them and the witch that was fitting his trousers stabbed him with pins more time than he cared for.

“Merlin bless our soul,” breathed Madam Malkin with a flush to her cheeks as she shakes James’s hand and then Lily’s. “The Potter family! So good to see you again, James, Lily. And Fleamont Potter! All grown up I see! You’re becoming quite the handsome young man.”

“Maryanne, you’re looking well,” complimented Lily with a smile.

“What can I do for you all today?”

“Fleamont here needs to be fitted for his Hogwarts uniform,” said James loudly. “We’d like the _special_ treatment if you will.”

“Of course, of course,” Malkin agreed readily, ushering his family away into the back room. Harry was rather glad to be rid of them though it stung to be so ignored – especially when James had looked his way before leaving. Curling his hands into a fist and brushing away the momentary depression, Harry ignores the few times the fitting witch pricked him with the needle as she chatted away with a co-worker. Once finally done, Harry leaves with his parcel of belonging and heads off to buy his trunk. The one he chose was a smooth, polished gray color with silver trimmings and a white clasp. It had nearly depleted his funds as it was a bottomless trunk with password setting to it, but Harry thought it was worth it. He didn’t know many protective jinxes yet, and was rather paranoid by the thought of anyone rummaging through his belongs while at Hogwarts. His final stop of the day was the one he was looking forward to the most. _Ollivander’s: Maker of Fine Wands since 382 B.C._

The interior of the shop was small and cramped, boxes of wands stacked along the walls from floor to ceiling, and was dimly lit. The air was dusty and smelled faintly of wood, but there a presence to the room, an entity that made Harry shudder as if the shop itself was holding its breath against whatever it was. “Ah, Mr. Potter, I thought I would be seeing you soon enough,” whispered a soft voice that nearly had Harry jumping out of his skin.

He spins to face an old man with wide, pale eyes that appear milky white. Ollivander stares at him curiously, and Harry looks at the man with weariness. “Hello,” he says, at last, thinking it rude to not greet the wandmaker.

“You come without the company of your family, that alone would suggest that something is amiss,” murmurs Ollivander, and Harry stiffens at this. The man walks past him to draw a measuring tape from behind the counter. “If you will, Mr. Potter, come here.”

Harry does as instructed and Ollivander measures him from head to toe, the width of his arms, legs, and torso. “Which hand is your wand arm?” asked the wandmaker.

“I’m right-handed,” Harry offered quietly.

“I remember every wand that I ever sold, Mr. Potter,” said Ollivander conversationally as he moved away from Harry to examine a row of wand boxes. “Every single wand, from core to wood… No two Ollivander wands are the same, and just as such, the wand will always choose the wizard.”

Harry provides no input on this, electing to listen intently as the man murmurs to himself. Ollivander brings forward a box, opening it and presenting the wand to Harry. “Holly and Phoenix feather, eleven inches.” His fingers had barely wrapped around the handle before the wand was snatched away a second later, and Ollivander seemed almost disappointed by this. “I had assumed as much… Brother may it be, it is not meant for you…” He continues to speak to himself as he replaces that wand with another.

Holly and dragon string, thirteen inches, also proved not to be the wand for him. As wand after wand piles onto the countertop, Harry feels his stomach twist with dread. What was he to do if he never found a wand? He couldn’t go to Hogwarts without one – it would be like going there stark naked! Ollivander, whispering in feverish excitement about something being curious, went into the back room and brought out a wand that was bone white. Harry stares at it in wonder, and without providing information on the wand, Ollivander gingerly hands it over.

From the moment his fingers curled around the handle, Harry knew this wand was for it. It warmed his hand like a merry fire, and from the tip, a violet light jetted forward, harmlessly bouncing off the walls and vanishing. “Ash and Fwooper feather, thirteen and a half inches long, very rigid,” said Ollivander as he wraps the wand up. “A very unusual combination… every strange, indeed. I advise you to be careful with the path you take in life, Mr. Potter, and the magic you dabble in.”

“Whys that?” asked Harry curiously.

“An ill omen, my boy, an ill omen indeed. The Fwooper feather… such a core is not often used in wands as it is rumored to drive its wielder mad… nonsense, but perhaps, not?” Ollivander shakes his head, holding the boxed wand out to Harry. “Be very careful, Mr. Potter. There is a great future ahead of you, but also a tragic one.”

Startled by the forewarning, Harry nods and with the last of his money, pays for his wand. He ducks out of Ollivander’s shop, utterly shaken by the man’s words and uncertain on how he should perceive them. He wants to ignore them, of course, but he feels, for some strange reason, that Ollivander might have very well predicted the future – vague as it was. A great future was ahead of him, but also a tragic one. As he passes his family, Harry cannot help but wonder which would occur first: greatness or tragedy.


	4. Hogwarts

 

Chapter Four

**Hogwarts**

 

The morning of September the first was greeted with a bustle of activity in the Potter Manor. Between Lily wrangled with a fussy Rosemary who outright refused to be properly bathed and clothed, and James helping Fleamont pack his mountain of personal items and school equipment for the year, they were a bit rushed. When they had all finally managed to sit down for breakfast, Lily felt a nagging tickle in the farthest recesses of her mind that insisted that she was forgetting something, which was strange as she was sure nothing was amiss. Even as her eyes glanced over at the empty chair to her left, she did not connect the dots that would have alerted her to the fact that upstairs, Harry was still very much asleep. Like always, when it came to her other son, Lily simply didn’t have the memory or care to spare for him and quickly turns her focus back to the conversation at hand.

“We’re going to be late if we don’t hurry!” Fleamont was saying between mouthfuls of food.

“It’s barely a quarter past ten, love,” Lily reassured him, smoothing her hand through his unruly hair in fondness. “Just eat up and as soon as you’re done we’ll Apparate right to the station, alright?”

“But what if the train leaves without me?” asked Fleamont nervously, pushing at his untouched sausage with the prongs of his fork.

“As if they would ever do such a thing!” said Lily, scandalized by the thought and James nods along as he urges Rosemary to eat her breakfast. “The _Daily Prophet_ has done nothing but talks about you starting Hogwarts, love, and everyone is very excited to see you off.”

“Even you decide to take all morning getting ready,” added James, “they would wait for you to board before setting off to Hogwarts.”

“You think so?”

“We know so,” chorused Lily and James, beaming at their son.

When Fleamont finished with his plate, Lily set it aside in the sink along with the rest, and she takes Rosemary into her arms as James brought out Fleamont’s gold-and-crimson trunk. He shrunk it down to pocket size, tucked it away, and asked them, “Everyone ready to go?” and upon receiving a chorus of yes, he took his son’s hand into his own and the couple vanished from the kitchen with a crack. They Apparated in the center of the platform 9 ¾. The platform was swarming with people, their voices lost in the din of the scarlet steam engines whistle and the cries of student familiars. When someone had spotted Fleamont, they immediately draw attention to the Potter family with their animated pointing and exciting voice. Within seconds, they are surrounded by students, young and old, and their family members asking for photographs and autographs from the Boy-Who-Lived. Lily and James smile and keep a hold of their son, fearing that he might be snatched away. It was when a child with tight, bouncing curls bound in front of them that Lily remembered that they were missing another child. No one else had taken notice of Harry's absence – and this did not surprise her as he wasn’t very sociable or worth knowing about, unlike her Monti.

“James,” she subtly leans into him to whisper, “we forgot the boy at home.”

“A shame we can’t just lock him up where he can’t cause trouble,” James whispers into her ear, feigning a display of affection for the public as he kisses her cheek. “I’ll drop him off at Dumbledore’s office later on. For now, let’s just enjoy the moment, shall we.”

* * *

 

Harry wakes up to silence. In a house that rarely goes without such a feat, it was both surprising as it was bothersome. He sits upright with anxiety twisting his stomach into knots and consults the clock on his nightstand. It was already fifty minutes past ten o clock, and Harry feels a shiver of horror run down his spine. Jumping out of bed, he grabs the handle of his trunk and shakes his wand free from its box and into his hand. Casting the feather-light charm he’d learned over the remainder of summer break, he pulls his trunk along as he makes his way out the bedroom and down the hall. The other rooms are silent and closed, a sure sign that they were not occupied. Down the steps and into the archway, only the kitchen shows signs of use. It did not take Harry long to conclude that his family had left him, but even while knowing this, he calls out “Is anyone home?”

No response, as expected. The dread in his stomach mutates into a swarm of scorpions. They had left him home alone before – many upon many times, in fact, more than he cared to count, but surely he couldn’t be so forgettable that they would blindly think they only had one son headed off to Hogwarts that day? Maybe, Harry thinks slowly as he grips his wand tightly, maybe they had never intended to let him go to Hogwarts? James and Lily made no secret of their dislike for him – their lack of interest in anything that had to do with him and preference to pretending he didn’t exist unless they were punishing him for one thing or another. But surely. . . surely, they couldn’t be so cruel as to keep him from having an education.

They had already attempted the same thing when he and Fleamont were four years old. While his brother was given a practice wand and provided tutors, Harry was excluded from these luxuries. If he hadn’t been clever enough to find a way to listen in on the lessons, his ignorance would be comparable to that of a Muggleborn. He wouldn’t allow it. Hogwarts was his only means to escape this half-life he lived, this wretched existence of being nonexistent in the eyes of others. His resolve set and mind made up, Harry tightens his hold on his trunk and was more than ready to head out the front door and call on the services on the Knight Bus when the crack of Apparation startled him.

A sharp cry of “Harry!” rang out from the living room and Harry drags himself there to find an irate James waiting for him. A snarl had distorted the man’s face in a way that made Harry think of a jackal, and if looks could kill, the burning hatred in his father’s eyes would have reduced him to cinders seconds ago. “Why didn’t you come down when the rest of us were ready? Thought you were too good to get up and join us, did you? Thought we’d wait for your sorry arse.”

 _I didn’t think any of those things_ , Harry thinks and wants to say, but decides against it. James always had an explosive anger, especially when it came to him, and the last thing he needed was a bruised ribcage or shattered wrist bone on the very first day of term. It would not only be a great hindrance to him, physically but also prompt questions – if anyone cared to notice, anyway.

“Circe, we would have been far better off if Voldemort had just offed you,” James muttered under his breath callously, thinking his words quiet but Harry heard – Harry always heard and his heart _hurt_ something fierce. He wants to not feel the pain that comes when he hears those damning words, the final nail in the coffin because his own father, his own blood, and maker, had wished he had died that night ten years ago, but it comes anyway. It wraps its sticky, sulfuric fingers around his trembling heart and grips it without remorse. At least, he thinks, he didn’t cry because of it; his tears had dried themselves years ago. “Well, get a move on already!” James snapped as he snatched Harry’s trunk and shrunk it down to size. Stuffing it into his pocket, he stands impatiently in front of the fireplace, a handful of Floo powder in hand.

Harry hurries over and grabs a handful of the gray powder for himself, waiting for further instructions. “You’ll need to say ‘Headmaster’s Office, Hogwarts’, you understand me?” Harry nods slowly. “Good. If you need up lost, I won’t spared the time of day to help you.”

Again, Harry only nods, opting to remain mute. He does as per instructed and finds himself spiraling out of view. The living room winks out of view and after a discomforting moment, Harry spits out of the fireplace and staggers into the strangest room he had ever seen. It was circular and filled to the brim with trinkets and knick-knacks, slumbering portraits of former Headmasters and Headmistresses, a cluttered desk, a bird’s golden perch and numerous devices that spin and hum with life. It was all amazing. James soon enough joins him, and after a quick sweep of the office and seeing no signs of the present Headmaster, grabbed Harry by the elbow and marched him out the room. It was when they had reached the bottom of the spiraling staircase that they were greeted by the sight of Albus Dumbledore. The old wizard looked to be in good spirit, his eyes twinkling and smile widening at the sight of James.

James, quick to release his hold on Harry, says in a bright voice, “Dumbledore! Just the man I was looking for!”

“Good morning, James,” says Dumbledore in greeting, “to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”

James nonchalantly gestures to Harry who Dumbledore takes notice of. His blue eyes are curious, but aside from that, he does not seem to know _who_ Harry was. “He missed the train to Hogwarts. I hope you don’t mind if he stays here until the others arrive.”

“Of course not,” said Dumbledore upon hearing the reason behind the visit, and he offers Harry a kind smile. “If I may ask, young man, what is your name?”

“He’s Harry Potter,” James answers before Harry could introduce himself.

Dumbledore seems a bit taken aback by this revelation. The boy in front of him looked nothing like his twin brother, Fleamont. In fact, he looked nothing like his mother or father. His hair was a mess of tight, too dark curls that show a hint of red under the torchlight, leaving Dumbledore to assume that the boy had recently woken up. He was petite with soft features that are further accented by the fullness of his lips and large, pale greens eyes that stare at him in wariness. As he replays James’s words in his mind, Dumbledore feels nausea unfurl in his stomach. He does not dare to believe that James and Lily would knowingly leave their son behind while they took their other children out with them, but neither could he ignore how James hadn’t introduced Harry Potter as his son. Tucking away the thought for later, Dumbledore nods and says, “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Harry.”

“It’s nice to meet you too, Sir,” Harry responds quietly, shying away from the warm smile and gentle eyes of the old Headmaster.

“Well, I’ll be taking my leave now,” James announced as he took out Harry’s miniaturized trunk and handed it over to him. “Lily is probably wondering what’s taking me so long.”

“Of course,” Dumbledore says. “As always, James, it’s good to see you.”

“Thank you again, Dumbledore,” James said before walking past the old wizard. He doesn’t spare Harry a backward glance, or even a goodbye. Dumbledore does not comment on this, but his concern mounts and as he looks at the boy who no longer would meet his eyes, he feels as if a grave injustice has been done – and he was at fault.

“Come along, my boy. I was just about to enjoy some lunch in my office,” he says softly.

“I don’t want to intrude, Sir,” Harry mutters.

“It would be no intrusion at all,” Dumbledore insisted and Harry can only nod as he follows the Headmaster back to his office. “Please, take a seat.”

Harry does so, finding the plush armchair to be rather comfortable. Dumbledore calls on a house-elf by the name of Miffy who brings them a plate of a ham sandwich and chips for Harry, and chicken pot pie and lemon flavored treacle tart for Dumbledore. Harry doesn’t eat much of the sandwich, but he does enjoy the chips and Butterbeer, even taking a piece of the Muggle candy when Dumbledore offered it.

“I’m rather fond of lemon drops,” the headmaster said with a chuckle, nodding his head to the glass bowl filled to the brim with the sweets.

“I can tell, Sir,” Harry says without depth, not wanting to converse with the Headmaster. He wasn’t very good with people and had no experience when it came to socializing.

If Dumbledore is put off by his lack of interest, he doesn’t show it. Rather, he looked to be lost in thought as he ate and subtly studied Harry. Harry didn’t so much mind being studied by the old headmaster – but being scrutinized is a new experience for him. When he finished his lunch and the plates cleared, Harry and Dumbledore sit in semi-pleasant silence. The silence itself didn’t last long because soon enough they were joined by another man. He was tall and thin with swallow skin and black hair that curtained a sharp, scowling face. His nose was hooked and eyes a bottomless onyx that zeroed in on Harry for a good few seconds before he settles his focus back onto Dumbledore.

“Ah, Severus,” the old headmaster said, standing to greet the man. “How are you this afternoon?”

“Well enough, Albus, thank you,” drawls the man in a manner that reminded Harry, strangely, of James when he was trying to impress the upper echelons of Pureblood society. It never worked, of course as James only managed to come off as pretentious. “Minerva demands your audience in the staff room.”

“Playing the messenger, Severus?” teased Dumbledore with a light chortle. The man, Severus, is not amused by this and scoffs.

“I was simply on my way down to the dungeons and happened upon her,” explained Severus with a sneer. He glances over at Harry once more. “Who is the boy?”

“Ah, yes, this is Harry. Harry, this is Severus Snape, Potions professor and Head of Slytherin,” Dumbledore introduced the two with a beaming smile.

“Hello, sir,” Harry mutters, keeping his eyes on the high collar of the Potions Masters robes rather than his face. Severus Snape – he’s heard that name somewhere before. Actually, he was adamant that he’s heard the name Snape more than once in his life. Frowning a bit from the struggle of trying to recall where and from whom he’d heard about this man, Harry didn’t notice that Dumbledore was already making his way out of his office until long, pale fingers gripped his shoulder and roused him from his stupor.

“Come along, boy,” said Severus.

Harry complies quickly, getting to his feet and following after the two men despite his hesitation at the sight of his trunk. The group makes their way out the headmaster's office and into the corridor where Dumbledore bids them a farewell after reassuring Harry that he was in good hands. Harry wasn’t quite sure about it as Severus Snape did not seem partial to children whatsoever, but he followed after the man nonetheless.

The dungeons, Harry would come to realize, were not only dark and eerie but so quiet that it the air around them held its breath. It was as if secrets of magic old and _dark_ were being withheld. Harry was almost tempted to speak to the tapestries of serpents just to know what secrets they held. But the warning of his parents resonates like a fresh, pulsing wound. The Potions Master led him into the Potions classroom where a cauldron was currently bubbling with water.

“Sit and be quiet,” instructed Severus and Harry can only nod before slinking off to sit in the front of the professor’s work desk.

For the most part, Harry stayed quiet and observed while the older wizard worked. Oh, he was tempted of course – he wanted to ask what draught the man was working on and if he could help. But Severus probably wouldn’t take too kindly to him prying. Still, Harry, at least, wanted to keep himself busy.

“Can I help you, sir?” he asked cautiously.

“Are you… _adequate_ in the delicate art of potions making?” inquired the professor.

Harry nods slowly, coming around the table to stand beside the man at the desk. “In theory, I’d like to say I’m exceptional… but I haven’t much practice with actual brewing. My parents wouldn’t allow it.”

“Pray tell, why is that?”

Harry shrugs but doesn’t verbally respond, not wanting to go into detail or explain that James and Lily found anything that didn’t have to do with Fleamont or his interest pointless.

“The Five Finger grass bark needs to be stripped, chopped, and crushed into a fine powder,” Severus said as he pushed the dark green bark over to Harry along with a thin, translucent blade. “Do try not to make a mess of it.”

“Thank you, sir,” Harry whispers as he picks up the blade and strips away the bark.

“What are you thanking me for, boy?” asked Severus.

Harry pauses his ministrations to meet the potions professor’s eye for the first time since their meeting, a tiny, weary smile on his lips. “For letting me help, I suppose.”

Severus snorts softly, a sneer curling his slender lips upward. “Get back to work.”

“Yes, sir.”

* * *

 

"Welcome to Hogwarts," said Professor McGonagall. "The start of the term banquet will begin shortly, but before you take your seats in the Great Hall, you will be sorted into your houses. The Sorting Ceremony is tremendously important for while you are at Hogwarts, your house will be your home and family. You will attend classes with your house members, sleep in your house dormitory, and spend free periods in your house's common room. The four Houses at Hogwarts are Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. Each house has its own noble history, and each has produced outstanding witches and wizards. While at Hogwarts, your triumphs will earn your house points while disregards for rules will result in loss of house points. At the end of the term, the house with the most points will be awarded the House Cup. I hope you will all be a credit to whichever house becomes yours. In the meanwhile, while the Sorting Ceremony is being prepared, please take this time to smarten yourselves." Here her eyes lingered on Neville Longbottom’s poorly fastened cloak and the nose of Ron Weasley who flushed furiously under her gaze.

"I shall return when we are ready for you," Professor McGonagall continued. "You are to wait quietly until then."

When she left the small, circular chamber, Fleamont quickly turned to Ron with a wide grin. The redheaded boy was still trying to remove the smug of dirt from his nose – something Fleamont thought was a right laugh. Some of the other students had begun to talk amongst themselves, speculating what they might have to do to be sorted into the proper house. Fleamont wasn’t worried about any test – his mum and dad already told him that he wouldn’t have to do anything strenuous – and even if he was too, he was Fleamont Potter. He could do anything he wanted, no problem.

“Malfoy’s glaring at you,” Ron informed him stiffy, and both boys turned to stare at the blonde boy.

Draco Malfoy had attempted to befriend Fleamont on the ride over, and truthfully – Fleamont had been tempted because the blonde boy screamed wealth, just like him. Ron was a good friend, but they didn’t look good together. Prince and pauper, like his mum, liked to call them. However, since his dad already told him all about the Malfoy’s and their allegiance to the Dark Lord, Fleamont had promptly told the other boy to sod off.

“I think he hates me now,” Fleamont said with a smirk.

“Probably because he’s jealous, the twat,” said Ron. “Just like your brother – maybe they’ll become friends. Two sodding losers, the lot of them.”

Fleamont shrugged indifferently. His brother wasn’t a subject matter he cared to discuss. Unlike him and his parents, his brother didn’t do anything worthwhile or even interesting. It didn’t surprise him that his brother was virtually invisible and unwanted by others. After all, his parents didn’t hide the fact that they didn’t even _want_ Harry as a son, so why should Fleamont even think of him as a brother?

“Doesn’t matter to me what that tosser does,” Fleamont said. “I’d rather have you as a brother instead.”

A complete lie, of course. Fleamont barely tolerates having Rosemary around, but he supposes if they had been siblings, Ron would have made a good lackey. Ron, who had been beaming with admiration only a second ago, frowned and nodded his head pointedly over to where Harry was being escorted into the chamber by a man with dark hair and a hooked nose.

Fleamont and Ron shared a look and crept closer to listen in. They were near enough to hear the man say, “Enjoy the rest of your evening, Harry.”

Harry flushed hotly and nods, offering the man a shy smile as he responds with a, “You too, professor. And thank you again. That was the most fun I’ve had in ages.”

“Of course. Should I be in need of competent assistance, I will call on you.”

With that the man leaves Harry standing by himself in the corner of the chamber, fiddling with the hem of his sleeves. Fleamont and Ron share another look, silently wondering what had occurred between the two. They looked to be on friendly terms, warranting Fleamont to wonder why Severus Snape was chumming up to his lard of a brother.

“I’m going to tell dad about this,” he told Ron as Professor McGonagall came back into the chamber and instructed them to stand in straight line. “Harry knows dad hates Snape – he’s a slimy snake and was a you-know-what.”

Ron’s eyes widened. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“Blimey,” Ron said in a hushed voice as they were lead into the Great Hall. “Why would your brother talk to him then?’

“He’s probably dark,” sniffed Fleamont as they stopped in front of a three-legged stool in the center of the Hall. “Mum always said she wouldn’t be surprised if he ended up” – here he lowers his voice – “a _Death Eater_ just because he could speak to snakes and never talked to people.”

“What are they gonna do if he does turn out that way?” asked Ron, casting frightened glances to where Harry was standing.

“You can’t tell anyone because mum and dad will get in trouble but…” Fleamont pauses, shooting the bushy-haired girl behind them a shriveled glare for standing too close to him, and leans in to whisper into Ron’s ear, “they said they’ll have to off him.”

Ron doesn’t say a word for the longest, as he is shocked by the thought of the Potter’s killing their own child. Sure, he himself and his whole family weren’t lovers of dark magic users, but Ron didn’t think either of his parents would have the heart to hurt him or his siblings if they turned out to be dark. Disappointed, perhaps, but they’d never murder them. Swallowing the lump in his throat just as the Sorting Hats song comes to an end, Ron claps politely along with the rest before whispering back to Fleamont, “That’s – that’s probably for the best.”

“I knew you would understand,” Fleamont said, grinning brightly at the redheaded boy. “See – this is why you’re my best mate, Ron.”

Ron smiles a little more easily at that. Being Fleamont’s best mate was something to be proud of – a special spot for him alone. He wasn’t rich or famous or talented like Fleamont or any of the other kids he sometimes hung out; and while he was envious of everything his friend had, Ron, at least, had his friendship. Maybe that alone could get him somewhere important in life.

"When I call your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be sorted," instructed Professor McGonagall as she unrolled a large sheet of parchment. “Abbot, Hannah.”

A pink-faced girl with blonde pigtails stumbled forward – courtesy of Fleamont who stuck his foot out. Professor McGonagall had always gone on about how excited she was to have him finally coming to Hogwarts during the few times he’d seen her over the summer – so Fleamont had, rightfully, expected that she’d call on him first. Miffed about having to wait his turn, he took pleasure in tripping up anyone who walked past him. When his name was finally called upon, the reaction was just as he’d predicted.

“Potter, Fleamont.”

Whispers broke out across the Great Hall like a pit of hissing snakes, head craning to catch a better glimpse of him as he sauntered up to the stool with an arrogant swagger to his step.

“ _It’s really him!”_

_“I can’t believe Fleamont Potter is finally here!”_

_“The Boy-Who-Lived – he looks so cool.”_

The Sorting Hat was dropped over his head and covered his eyes. “ _Hmm_ ,” whispered a small, soft voice in his ear, “ _Fleamont Potter – such a high pedestal you stand upon, boy… be careful not to fall…_ ”

 _Get to the point already, you stupid hat,_ Fleamont thought. _Put me in Gryffindor._

“ _Oh, and why Gryffindor? You are neither courageous or brave… egotistical boy, there is ambition at the very least. Some cunning as well, I see… Slytherin would suit someone like you_ …”

 _No! Every Potter since my tenth great-grandfather has been in Gryffindor!_ Fleamont argued furiously, gripping the bench till his knuckles showed bone white. _Put me there! If I end up anywhere but Gryffindor, my parents will hate me! And they’ll kill me if I go into Slytherin._

“ _You limit yourself for the sake of fame and admiration… pitiful, child so be it._ Better be GRYFFINDOR!”

Tearing off the hat with a smug grin on his face, Fleamont waved to the cheering Gryffindor table as he made his way over, head held high. As his parents always told him, anything and everything he wanted he could get – he was the Boy-Who-Lived, after all. Sitting down next to Weasley twins, Fred and George who were identical down to the last freckle, Fleamont watched as the rest of the students were sorted.

“Potter, Harry.”

A hushed silence fell over the Great Hall, as equally profound as the whispers Fleamont received when he was called up. Curious eyes followed his brother as he slowly made his way up to the stool, eyes vacant of emotion and lips pursed in a tight line.

_“Never knew Potter had a brother.”_

_“He doesn’t look a thing like him – are you sure they’re twins?”_

_“Never heard of him before. Are they even related?”_

Harry was an internal mess of nerves and fears. Where would the hat put him, he wondered? While he knew his parents didn’t give a sodding arse about him if he ended up anywhere but Gryffindor, they were bound to make a fuss out of it; if only for a little while. He didn’t need their reminder on how much of a disappointment he was. Subtly wiping the sweat from his palms, Harry glanced up at the Head Table where Professor Snape was staring at him with hard, calculating eyes. He quickly looks away. During their time together, Harry had recalled where and from whom exactly he had heard the name Snape from. James had made it known early on that he loathed the very ground Severus Snape walked upon; and further informed Fleamont that Snape was not to be trusted as he was a former Slytherin and Death Eater.

Harry was conflicted. Professor Snape had treated him so kindly when he hadn’t known he was a Potter – would he still treat him the same after realizing the boy who had helped him create the Blood Replenishing draught was the son of the very same man who tormented him when they were in Hogwarts? _Probably not_ , Harry thinks bitterly as he sits down on the stool and the Sorting Hat is lowered onto his head. _It was nice while it lasted, I guess._

“ _Your hardships have but only begun_ ,” whispered the hat into his ear, and Harry swears he hears a note of sympathy in its voice. “ _Your troubles not yet over… You will face many challenges, Mr. Potter… far too many for a boy so young. But you have grown far beyond your years – a shame that you never got to be a child… a true shame indeed_.”

 _Don’t tell anyone,_ Harry begged it, fisting his robes to conceal the trembling of his fingers.

 _“It is not my place to tell – though the punishment they would receive is duly deserved_ ,” reassured the hat. “ _I am only here to place you where you best belong, Mr. Potter… Now, let us see. You are cunning young man, Mr. Potter… a good head on your shoulders, an even better mind. You wish to prove your worth – my, such a thirst for knowledge you have… but where to put you, I wonder?_ ”

_Anywhere… anywhere is fine._

_“Anywhere, you say? Are you sure, Mr. Potter?”_

_Yes._

“ _As you wish. May you find greatness and true friendship in your journey, Mr. Potter._ Better be RAVENCLAW!”

 

 


	5. A Commendable Act

 

 

Chapter Five

**A Commendable Act**

 

 

The final first year was sorted into Slytherin, and Dumbledore stands to greet them all with his arms wide open and an alarmingly bright smile on his face. “Welcome! Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts to those returning and those just joining us. Before the banquet begins, I would like to say a few words: _Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!_ ”

Dumbledore sits back down and Fleamont wasn’t sure whether to laugh or frown. He could never be quite certain when it came to Albus Dumbledore – his parents both spoke highly of him, praising him and insisting that if anyone was worthy of mentoring him, it was Dumbledore. Beside him, Ron had turned to his brother and Fifth Year Prefect, Percy, to ask: “Is he mad?”

“Dumbledore? Circe no,” Percy Weasley said airily, “he’s a genius – a well-renowned wizard and an asset to our society. But, yes, he is a bit mad.”

“But you just said – “Ron spluttered, cheeks tinted pink as he readied to argue with his brother when Fleamont nudged him sharply in the stomach and nodded toward the Ravenclaw table. Forgetting all about the discussion he’d been having with Percy, Ron frowned over at Harry who was absently piling his plate with food and plainly ignoring those around him. “It’s like the Patil twins,” he said, grabbing himself a goblet of pumpkin juice and taking a big swing. “Kind of surprising your brother ended up in Ravenclaw – he doesn’t look all that book smart.”

“I expected Slytherin, honestly,” Fleamont admitted, “but doesn’t matter where he ended up. He knows well enough that everyone in our family has been in Gryffindor for ages.” Fixing himself a plate as well, Fleamont goes on to say, “He was always jealous of me when we were kids. Me being famous and all. I wouldn’t be surprised if he _begged_ to go to another house, just so he could get noticed seeing as he isn’t going to amount to anything after Hogwarts.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right about that, mate,” Ron agrees readily.

“He’s just that pathetic.”

“A great sodding loser,” Ron said with an empathic nod of the head. “It’s no wonder nobody ever knew ‘bout him till now. I mean, he isn’t as cool or popular like you. Definitely isn’t going to be a big hero like you, mate.”

Fleamont smiles merrily at the other boy. If anyone was able to understand his woes when it came to having such a waste of space for a brother, it was Ron. Sure, the redhead might have more siblings then he could count, but he, like Fleamont, was ambitious and determined to make something out of himself. He wouldn’t become anything notable like Fleamont, of course, but at the very least he won’t be a loser for the rest of his life. Casting a final glance at the Ravenclaw table, Fleamont found himself grinning when the others around Harry started to turn away from his brother. _Definite loser for life_ , he thought as he ate his mashed potatoes and roasted ham with a content smile on his face.

* * *

 

_“What does your brother like to do for fun?”_

_“What’s his favorite color?”_

_“Does your brother have a girlfriend – he must, him being the Boy-Who-Lived and all.”_

_“How come you aren’t in Gryffindor like your brother?”_

_“Are you really his twin brother? You two don’t look a thing alike!”_

_“How did your brother defeat You-Know-Who? You must know seeing as you were there when it happened.”_

Being bombarded with an endless stream of questions that Harry couldn’t answer and didn’t want to left him in a bit of a bad mood. Growing increasingly put-off by the series of inquiries about his lard of a brother, Harry elected to simply ignore them all and try to eat his dinner in relative peace. Eventually, his new housemates grew tired of trying to coax a response out of him and turned to converse amongst themselves. They would forget about him soon enough, Harry thought as he mechanically chewed a bit of chicken. Like everyone else, once their curiosity had weaned or Fleamont stole the limelight once more, he would simply fade into the shadows and become – once again – unknown. It should sadden him, and it did to a degree but Harry was no longer as bothered by it. When he was younger, smaller and more vulnerable, being alone, neglected and forgotten had hurt him like a fresh bruise being probed. Now, however, he simply brushes away such emotions and buries them in a corner of his subconscious where all bitter, hurtful memories dwelled.

With just a small portion of his dinner consumed, Harry played with the remaining portion as he listened to the buzz of conversations around him. When his dinner dishes were cleared and replaced with a wide assortment of desserts, Harry helped himself to an even smaller serving of peppermint ice cream. It was good, the sweetness of the sugar and undertone of mint nicely balanced. Lily never let him have dessert back at home – absolutely forbid him from touching any sort of sweets as they all belonged to Fleamont. But, seeing as she wasn’t here to reprimand him for eating ice cream, Harry allowed himself to relax a bit and enjoy his treat.

It was as he was licking the edge of his spoon clean that Harry noticed that he was being watched. At the Head Table, Professor Snape was staring at him. A man wearing a violet turban was speaking to him, hands twitching nervously in the air as he spoke. Snape looked to be listening intently, but his obsidian eyes never once wavered away from Harry’s face. The other man turns to see what Snape was staring at and though their eyes had briefly connected, Harry quickly ducked his head down to hide a grimace of pain. Right near his heart, a sharp sting had erupted, stealing the breath from his lungs.

Bringing a hand up to rub at the throbbing spot on his chest, Harry pushes away empty bowl and kept his head low the remaining duration of the feast. When the last dessert had vanished from the tables, Dumbledore stands to his feet once more and the hall falls silent. “Now that we have all been watered and fed, I have a few start of the term notice to give you,” he started, “First Years should note that the forest on the grounds are forbidden – thus, its name, Forbidden Forest. Our caretaker Mr. Filch, has asked me to remind you all that no magic is to be used between classes.”

He continues on to explain about upcoming Quidditch tryouts and warning all students against entering the right-hand side of the third-floor corridor least they wished for a painful and violent end. Harry, amongst many others, wasn’t sure if the Headmaster was serious or not but decided to heed the warning nonetheless. Before they were dismissed to their respective houses, the headmaster insisted a song to close the Welcoming Feast. Harry didn’t join in the atrocious mess of a chorus, opting to trace rune patterns onto the table with his forefinger and waiting patiently for it to come to an end. When the last note was sung (courtesy of the Weasley twins) Dumbledore bid them all a good night. The first years were herded by a pretty blonde Prefect by the name of Penelope Clearwater and a dark-haired boy with a severe expression who introduced himself as Basil.

As the pair led them from the Great Hall to the spiraling staircase where animated portraits alternated between welcoming them to Hogwarts and warning oblivious students of shifting steps, Harry watched as the Gryffindor Prefect scolded the poltergeist, Peeves, for harassing his first years before they, along with Fleamont, went out of sight. When they came upon Ravenclaw tower, Penelope and Basil stood beside the entrance door. It was a deep bronze with a golden eagle, wings unfurled and sharp eyes glittering black, mounted on the face.

Its beak opened as it spoke, “Answer me this riddle and entrance you shall be given.”

Penelope smiled at it indulgently. “As you can see, rather than having a new password every fortnight, you’ll be given a riddle. If you answer it correctly, the door will open up for you. Answer incorrectly, and you’ll have to wait for another student or for someone to be leaving the common room.”

“But why riddles, though?” asked a nervous looking boy with a smattering of freckles on his pale face and large, bulging brown eyes.

“Because we’re in Ravenclaw,” answered Basil with an impatient sigh. “We’re the clever folk, so you lot should be smart enough to answer a bloody riddle.”

“Be nice, Basil,” Penelope said, wagging her finger at him before she turned her focus back to them. “Anyone want to come up and try?”

A girl, Padma, if Harry remembered correctly, stepped forward with a confident stride. She stood in front of the statue, back rod straight and head held high. “Well, then, go on,” she told it and it opens its beak to give her this riddle:

 

_If you break me I do not stop working,_

_If you touch me, I may be snared_

_If you lose me, nothing will matter_

_What am I?_

 

For too long, she does not speak and Harry could just see the gears in her mind working to find an answer. The minutes’ stretch on and as Padma continues to grapple for an answer, Penelope urges the rest of them to try to figure it out. None of the others speak up, and Harry, answer already in mind, says in a voice that is just barely audible, “Your heart.”

The others turn to look at him, wholly surprised, and Harry wonders if they had forgotten that he had been there to begin with. The status’ black eyes settle onto him, and its beak parts once more as it says, “You are correct.” The door opens inward and Harry only stares when Penelope offers him a smile. He shuffles into the common room after the others. The interior design of the room was set in a navy-and-black color scheme. The room itself is circular with bone white walls and velvet, plush armchairs set in corners of the room and a sofa before the fireplace. There were a few tables and chairs for those wanting to study in the common room, but at the moment it was empty of others students. Harry could only presume that they had gone to bed early.

Harry didn’t listen much to the introductory speech Penelope gave them (this begin the basics on what is expected of them, what is not acceptable, and how laziness would be looked down upon to which a boy, Michael Corner, groaned in distress) and only chorused with the other boys to bid her goodnight as Basil led them off to their dormitory.

Having grown up in a home predominately colored crimson and gold, the rich shade of blue linens and navy drapes was a difference Harry welcomed. The small room held only four beds, and at the foot of each of them were trunks. Harry, greatly relieved to see his, hurried over to the bed closest to the door. As he was opening up his trunk (his password whispered softly) the other boys were introducing themselves. He could feel their eyes falling onto him more than once as they waited for him to introduce himself to them, but Harry didn’t feel the need for it. They already knew _who_ he was — he was the acclaimed brother to the Boy-Who-Lived, the one no one ever knew existed, that had never before been mentioned in any of the papers or books that had been written about his family; up until he had stepped foot into Hogwarts and had been sorted into Ravenclaw, Harry Potter had been invisible.

He wouldn’t have minded it remaining that way, truthfully. While it was a nice to think about having a friend, Harry knew he lacked the social etiquettes to even create lasting relationships with anyone. With Snape, he hadn’t needed to speak much to the man – Severus would only give him directions, correct him if he’d made a mistake, and fell into comfortable silence with him once again. Snape hadn’t felt obligated to engage him in a conversation, or attempted to pry into his personal life – and Harry did the same in return.

So he continues to ignore his dormitory mates as he dressed in his sleeping clothes, locked up his trunk once more and pulled the drapes of his bed close. He didn’t go to sleep right away. In fact, he didn’t sleep for some time as he listened to other boys talking amongst themselves. “He’s probably just shy,” Terry Boot was saying.

“Not what I heard from Weasley,” said Anthony Goldstein. “Heard that he’s a right prat to his brother, always jealous because Fleamont’s famous and all.”

“It’s got to be hard, though, living in that kinda shadow,” Michael Corner said, sympathetic. “Got an older brother, he was a Prefect and went off to become a Solicitor – Mum never lets up on how perfect and wonderful Will is. It drives me mad, honestly. I couldn’t imagine living with a famous brother and knowing he’s Heir too.”

“Still, he could have at least said hello to us,” Terry said with a huff.

“Telling you, mate, he’s a prat. Better if we just not talk to him.”

“Yeah, guess so,” Michael said.

Their words are not as cutting as James or Lily’, they are not calculated and heavy with malic, but that does not mean that they do not hurt any less. He knew that his standoffish behavior earlier didn’t make him approachable, but still, he would have liked to think that they would have given him the benefit of the doubt later on and tried to engage him in a conversation another time. Rather, they believed the lies Weasley was spreading about him. _It would have been nice to have a friend_ , Harry thinks as he turns to his side and closes his eyes. _But friends aren’t necessary. I don’t need friends. I don’t need anyone._

* * *

 

The first day of lessons came bright and early for Harry. He was the first in his dorm to awaken, and by the time he had returned from his brisk shower the other boys were groggily pulling themselves free from their beds. Dressing in his uniform as the others made their way for the shower, Harry finds himself wondering about what awaited him. He was equally excited and nervous by the prospect of his first day, and while it took him many wrong turns and a few close encounters with the ever-changing staircases before he found his way to the Great Hall, Harry remained optimistic as he made his way there for breakfast.

Nobody bothered to look his way when he arrived, to which Harry assumed the momentary curiosity that had surrounded him the night before had vanished. If not completely, then it at least diminished to the point where no one cared to notice when he sat himself down at the end of Ravenclaw table and fixed himself a plate of eggs, toast and ham. The quality of the food was vastly different from the bland porridge and toast he frequently had for breakfast back home, rich in a way that made his mouth water from the flavor alone. As he was enjoying his meal, Harry spotted his families owl, Sri, dropping a package and letter in front of Fleamont. Harry wasn’t all that bothered when the cinder-coloured bird took off once again. He hadn’t expected to receive anything from his parents, but the small, hapless child tucked away in his subconscious hurts deeply. There is nothing worse than being ignored.

His Head of House, Filius Flitwick, was a half-goblin with slightly pointed ears, long fingers, and a high-pitched voice. He handed out the Time Tables to the First Years, wishing them all the best on their first day of lessons and insisting that they come to him should they be in need of anything. Harry looked his over, absently spooning strawberry yogurt into his mouth as he did so. Most of his lessons were with Hufflepuff, except for Charms which was with Slytherin and Flying Lessons – all the First Year’s, from all houses, were required to be present for that one.

Penelope gathered them all at the entrance of the Great Hall a quarter before breakfast was due to end to inform that that for the next few weeks they were required to travel between classes together. As she explained it, navigating the castle as a group would reduce their chances of becoming lost or being late. Harry didn’t quite agree with her assessment of this theory. Navigating the castle was already difficult enough without having to worry about Michael Corner and Terry Boot being too slow to get on a moving staircase, or Anthony Goldstein insulting a door that you needed to be polite to in order to get through. If anything, the only positive aspect of this whole thing was that you could rely on other people to remind you of a vanishing step halfway up the next stair, or that a certain door was actually a patch of wall pretending to be one.

The ghost wasn’t much help, either. The Grey Lady, their House Ghost, wouldn’t spare them a word, even to give directions towards a lesson, and the few times they had a run in with the Bloody Baron, the others had nearly pissed them (in Michael’s case, he’d actually gone and soiled himself – something Padma pointed out with disgust). Harry hadn’t found him all that frightening, a bit curious, but ultimately harmless. The Fat Friar happily pointed them in the right direction, but Peeves the Poltergeist was worth two locked doors and a trick staircase if one happened upon him while they were late for lessons.

When they finally came to their first lesson of the day, Harry was relieved when McGonagall gave them a pardon for being a minute late to her lesson. Of course, she warned them not to let it become a habit out of it, and Michael, easily the slowest of their group, grinned at her anxiously.

“Transfiguration is some of the most complex and dangerous magic you will learn at Hogwarts,” Professor McGonagall lectured, “anyone messing around during lessons will leave and not come back. You have been warned.”

Then she changed her desk into a pig and back again. They were all very impressed, and Harry especially couldn’t wait to get started. The complexity of the magic itself did not bother him – rather, it provided a challenge that the standard spells he’d practically at home hadn’t. He was disappointment to say the least when he learned that he wouldn’t be taught how to change furniture into animals for a long time. After taking long, complicated notes on the matter of Transfiguration itself, Professor McGonagall handed them a match and instructed them to try and turn it into a needle. It was different from the smaller forms of Transfiguration Harry had practiced at home – such as turning flowers into feathers and feathers into different kinds of feathers – but he concentrates his magic into the spell, winding it with _intention_. As a child, Harry had learned and thus connected, that magic was an entity in itself that fed on intention and emotions – the stronger the emotion, the desire and the casters will, the more effective the spell is. He had come to this theory through small experiments over the years – something simple like calling toys or a book to him from across the room, to dabbling with the will of animals to get them to come closer.

With a furrow to his brows, Harry whispers the spell and watches as the matchstick transforms into a needle. If Professor McGonagall took notice of this feat, she gave no inclination to it as she made rounds to the tables. While she was helping those who were struggling with their matchstick, Harry continues to practice with the spell. He changes his needle to a matchstick and back again several times before Professor McGonagall called an end to lessons and dismissed them. It was as they were leaving that she says, “Ten points to Ravenclaw.” At their mystified expressions, she explains further. “Mr. Potter transfigured his matchstick into a needle on the first attempt. Now, off you go.”

Harry, if not a little bit pleased by the recognition, hurries out the room before the rest of his group could think to say anything to him. When they did catch up to him, they pester him with questions. Harry shrugs them off, and Anthony says snidely, “He just got lucky. I heard Fleamont loads more talented in Transfiguration, just like his dad.”

Harry grits his teeth, annoyed by their excited speculations. If they knew the _real_ Fleamont, they wouldn’t be so keen on him; Boy-Who-Lived status be damned.

Easily the most boring class of all was History of Magic, which was the only lesson that was taught by a ghost. Professor Binns had been fairly old when he’d fallen asleep in front of the staff room fire and gotten up the next morning to teach, leaving his body behind. He droned on and on while the few who’d managed not to be lulled to sleep by the warmth of the classroom and monotonous echo of his voice scribbled down names and dates. Professor Binns would often get dates or names mixed up, realize this, and start from the begin. By the end of the lesson, Harry was the only one to remain awake. While his notes were organized to the best of his ability, ultimately they were pointless as everything he needed to learn was in the textbook. That didn’t stop the others from demanding to see his notes, however, to which he firmly said, “No” and walked away.

The class that Harry had been looking forward to turned out to be a bit of a joke and a complete waste of time. Defense Against the Dark Arts was taught by Professor Quirrell, a nervous, stuttering man who smelled heavily of garlic and wore a large, purple turban on his head. His classroom smelled strongly of the foul substance itself. Supposedly, this was to ward off the vampire he’d met in Romania. His turban, Quirrell told them, was a gift from an African Prince – a thank you for ridding him of a troublesome zombie. Harry would sooner believe that his brother was the human embodiment of a deity than such an obvious lie. The worst part of the lesson wasn’t that Harry spent the entire time reading from his textbook, or that he’d came out the classroom smelling of garlic, or even that he had to listen to Quirrell’s stuttering as he tried to answer Zacharias Smith’s pointed question about zombie extermination. It was that during the lesson, while Professor Quirrell was taking attendance, he met Harry’s eye and a stabbing pain had shot through his chest. It felt like someone had stabbed a knife through his right breast and twisted it. It happened every time Harry met his eye – there was no way it was a coincidence – and he left the classroom feeling like he’d learned nothing and gained a migraine for his efforts.

Charms was a fairly enjoyable lesson. Professor Flitwick was attentive as he was kind, overly helpful and eager to see what they were capable of. The lesson was the first Harry’s had with Slytherin’s and unlike the Hufflepuff’s who had tittered nervously with the rest of his housemates, and tried to help one another learn the spell for that lesson, the Slytherin’s kept to themselves. While some them had an air to them, a certain darkness that reminded Harry of James and Lily’s warning that Fleamont be careful around those “slimy snakes” Harry couldn’t see why others immediately assumed the worst of them. Sure, some did come from notoriously Dark orientated families, and even fewer were children of known Death Eaters – but in the end, they were still just children. They weren’t their parents but carried their demons all the same.

There was one Slytherin boy who frequently caught his eye throughout the lesson, and while Harry had nothing against the boy on a principal – he didn’t know him after all – the repercussions he would face for engaging with Lucius Malfoy’s son wouldn’t do him any favors. He could already hear James’ scornful, spiteful berating: “ _Always knew you’d end up being one of them – a Death Eater through and through. No son of mine – “_

The thought is cut away by Professor Flitwick’s dismissal. Harry shakes his head to clear the unsavory thoughts of his father from his mind and gathered his belongings before hurriedly leaving the classroom. By the time he’d gotten to Potions, his group lagging behind, all thoughts of Draco Malfoy were vacant from his mind and he found himself shifting his weight anxiously from foot-to-foot.

This would be the first time he would see Professor Snape since last night. Would the man even acknowledge him? Harry wasn’t so sure of that. The animosity between Snape and his father had been infamous, ugly. There was nothing to stop Snape from directing his hatred of James Potter onto his children, unfair as it was. Seated in the back of the classroom, Harry skims through his Potions textbook without really seeing the words themselves. He counts each breath that passed his lips, stopping only when the doors shut behind Professor Snape. Harry’s head jerks up, watching as the man swept into the room, black robes billowing behind him and coming to a stop in the front of the room.

“You are here to learn the subtle science and art of potions making,” Professor Snape says, his voice so low, so soft that the silence amplified. Harry is enthralled by the power of this man’s voice. It was nothing like his father who demanded attention by being loud and boastful, condescending. Severus Snape did not need to yell at the top of his lungs to command their attention – his mannerism, the cool darkness of his eyes that sweep over them like a chilly wind snares them within seconds. “There will be no foolish wand waving here.” He pauses, allowing them to sink in this revelation. “I do not expect many of you to understand the beauty of softly simmering cauldron, the delicate power of liquids that creep through the human veins. I can teach you to bewitch the mind, ensnare the senses . . .”

Harry does not think he is the only one that sits up a bit straighter, leans forward and grips the edges of his table. Surely, it was not only him who stops breathing in favor of devouring the words leaving the thin lips of the Potions Master.

“Here, you can learn to bottle fame and brew glory,” Snape continues, looking in Harry’s direction. “Or even put a stopper to death.” He directs his words to the entire classroom. “That is, of course, if you aren’t the usual breed of dunderheads I teach. Today, you will be brewing a fairly simple potion: The Cure for Boils. The instructions are written on the board. You may begin.”

For an hour they work in silence. Harry read the instructions on the board three times before he’d went to get his ingredients from the storage cupboard, and when he finally started on his potion he does so with a delicate hand and his bottom lip caught between his teeth. However, even with his focus on the task at hand, he cannot ignore the eyes of the Potions Master settling on him every so often. Harry knows if he were to look up and lock eyes with those obsidian orbs, his concentration would fracture.

“Acceptable, Mr. Potter,” drawls Professor Snape and Harry jerks his head up, surprised to find the man looming above him. The Head of Slytherin shifts his gaze between the completed draught and Harry. “Bring a vial to my desk with your name for grading.”

“Yes, Sir,” Harry says, barely above a whisper as the man continues with his rounds. Diminishing the flame, Harry poured a sample of his potion into a vial with a considerably less delicate hand. He scrawls his name onto it in hasty cursive and just as quickly deposits it onto Snape’s desk before making his way back to his table to clean up his work station.

Harry was the first to leave the classroom upon receiving Professor Snape’s dismissal, and it was while he was making his way down to the Great Hall for lunch that he wandered why if he was, possibly, avoiding being alone with the Potions Master. Snape did not necessarily frighten him – though he was frightening in his own way – the prospect of having to face the man know that he knew he was James Potter’s son wasn’t all too appealing. And beneath this was another fear: Harry did not want to be hated by Severus Snape. Silly as it was seeing as he barely knew the man, Harry could not shake the feeling that if anyone would understand him, it was the Potions Master.

* * *

 

In the dank, darkness of the dungeons time was nonexistent. To the newcomers of Hogwarts, the short distance crossed from the lively warmth of entrance hall, down into the spiraling, jagged staircase of the dungeons was eerily. It was as if one crossed into a new dimension, one where shadows roamed freely, shadowed eyes locked onto turned backs, and quiet laughter echoed in desolate corridors.  To Severus Snape, however, his dungeons were his domain. Nibble fingers, long and thin, extracted the spleens of three frogs from jar located in his storage room, his thoughts absent from the present.  Severus was, admittedly, deeply reluctant to admit that he had many preconceived notions as to what to expect from Fleamont Potter – expectations that had proven themselves to be true when he had caught sight of the carbon copy of James Potter that first night of the term. When the students had shown up that evening, and he had found himself sitting at the head table watching the first years being led in, single-file, by Minerva, he had not intentionally searched out the boy in the crowd, because he didn’t give a damn about him. However, when his eyes happened to fall upon him, a sneer spread across his lips as he was greeted with the miniature James Potter, in every way possible. The messy dark hair and hazel eyes; the same facial features; the same everything.

The boy had been clearly as arrogant as Severus had expected. Where his peers were gazing around the Great Hall in awe and amazement, Fleamont Potter had a smirk fixed onto his lips, his eyes alight with laughter as he struck a foot out to trip another student as they tried to step past him to be sorted. He was a bastard through and through. When his name was called, the hall broke into excited whispers, students craning their necks and leaning in various directions, attempting to get a look at the famous Boy-Who-Lived. Potter had strutted forward, head held high, not bothering to acknowledge those around him. As the hat grazed the crown of his head, Severus was not disappointed in his expectation of a quick sorting into Gryffindor.  The brat had the nerve to bow to his rumbustious housemates, allowing a few to clap a hand on his shoulder.

Yet what came as a shock to all was when another Potter was called forward – even Severus could not conceal the confusion he felt. The boy who came forward was the same one who had assisted him hours earlier. He stepped forward, eyes staring straight ahead and lips pursed. This Potter, unlike the brat-who-lived-to-complicate-his-life, wore an expression that remained cleaned of all emotions as he sat on the stool. It took a moment for the hat to deliberate, and Severus expected the boy to end up in his father’s house. He was surprised, however, when the hat called out, _“Ravenclaw!”_

It was as if the world had shattered in that moment. There was a deafening silence in the hall, a few gasp of shock. Then there was applause. But only from the Ravenclaw table, and even there if was a certain portion. A number were curious, confused, or displeased. It was the rest of the house tables that looked almost stunned, however. Not that a Potter had been sorted into Ravenclaw, but rather there was _another_ Potter, to begin with. No one had heard or seen this boy before; his name was never mentioned in the documented history books depicting the defeat the Dark Lord; he had never been sighted before. It was as if he had never existed until this very moment.

The only person who seemed unfazed was Albus Dumbledore and Fleamont Potter.

Potter’s sibling stood up with calm and grace, left the hat to a stunned Minerva, and strode just as calmly to the still applauding Ravenclaw table. He sat down to the right of the Grey Lady, the residential ghost of Ravenclaw. The boy spoke very little, ate very little, and sat with a withdrawn expression to his face.

It infuriated Severus.

Severus’s face adopted a sour expression as he contemplated this new situation. He couldn’t very well torment the Ravenclaw Potter, in the same manner, he had taken with the brat-who-wouldn’t-die – docking house points, trivial humiliation – because he held (this, he had begrudgingly come to terms with) no animosity toward the boy. Despising Fleamont Potter came as easily to him as breathing because the boy was _just like his father_ , but Harry; Harry didn’t look like James or Lily, and he was quiet; so quiet and withdrawn.

He reminded Severus of himself when he was younger.

Glancing at the simmering cauldron on his desk, Severus contemplated the likes of Harry Potter with a furrow to his brows. It already well into the term, and while his interactions with the other Potter boy did not exceed beyond the point of scrutinizing his potions (they were always so well done, and Potter always so patient and consumed by his work) Severus still could find no reason to openly display hostility to the boy. He knew the others, that everyone, expected it of him. It was no secret that he and James Potter were the bitterest of enemies, so they assumed – like they always do – that he would take enormous pleasure in tormenting his children; and he does. With Fleamont and whoever else dared to hang off the tail coats of the brat. But to Harry, he retained a civility that beguiled even him.

Shaking his head to clear it, Severus set to finishing Draught of Peace without a final thought to the likes of Harry Potter. For now, anyway.

 

* * *

 

Hallows Eve fell upon them in, what seemed like, a matter of days. The long summer days of September give way to the cold nights and short days of fall. There was an air of excitement to the day from the moment the sun had risen to when it descended over the horizon hours later. The halls and stairwells of Hogwarts were decorated in Muggle Halloween decorations that, unlike their counterparts, were actual eyeballs in glass bowls and irate bats that swooped from overheard. It was in the name of good fun, but Harry himself had never celebrated the holiday. Whereas his family participated in Catholic traditions and festivities, he followed Pagan customs. Of course, he never let this slip to anyone as the practice itself was kept within Dark families – and he did not want to give his family another reason to label him a budding Death Eater.

So while the rest of the school was in the Great Hall engorging themselves on pumpkin pastries, treacle tart and everything they could get their hands on, Harry was making his way back to Ravenclaw tower. Madam Pince had shooed him out of the library minutes ago – much to his disappointment because she had allowed him to stay close to curfew several times before – but it was as he was turning a corner that a strange sound caught his notice. Pausing, Harry turns his body to the source of the noise, listening closely. It sounded as if it was coming from down the corridor, near the girl's bathroom and whatever was making that sound was doing so violently.

Harry didn’t know what possessed him to go towards it, why he simply didn’t turn around and go fetch a professor like anyone with common sense should do; he couldn’t explain his actions but by the time he had started to regret his decision it was far too late to turn back. There, trapped in the second-floor girl's bathroom was his brother and Weasley, and the bushy-haired Muggleborn (Granger, he thinks). The thing currently imprisoning them was a fully grown mountain troll that was swinging its club here-and-there in rage, its muddled growls rebounding off the demolished walls as it smashed the lavatory to bits.

Drawing his wand was simply a defensive mechanism coming into play – especially when the troll took notice of him. It lumbered towards Harry, and Harry inches backward, heart in his throat as Fleamont scrambled to hide behind Ron. Harry didn’t really think when he cast the spell – how could he with fear pulsing madly in his veins? He just knew that he didn’t want to be hurt by this thing, he didn’t want to _die_. “ _Spiculum!”_

There was silence. The trolls guttered growls softening into pained whimpers and Harry opens his eyes, unsure when he closed them, to see crisscross slices adorning the trolls stomach. It staggers backward, Fleamont and Ron hurrying to escape as the beast collapses to its knees, entrails spilling out onto the floor. The troll bleeds profusely, its green blood darkening the tiles and Harry can only stare. His body hums, it tingles and he feels so _alive_ for the first time in his life.

That spell – he had only read it in a textbook, had known what it was capable of but never conceived to actually utter it himself. It was a dark jinx, something that feeds on the desire to _hurt_ and _kill_. He tightens his hold on his wand, turning his eyes away from the troll that had collapsed to its side, dead, to his brother who was staring at him with wide, horrified eyes.

“You killed it,” Fleamont said, hushed and condemning. “You killed it.”

“I – “ Harry started to say.

“You’re a murderer!” Fleamont yelled.

Harry gapes at him. He had just saved his life – he’d saved all of their lives, so how on earth could he just accuse him of such an awful thing? _Because that it what you did, silly boy_ , a sly, oily voices purrs from his subconscious, sounding faintly like Lily. _You could have used any other spell – ones that wouldn’t have killed it in such a brutal manner. But you wanted to hurt it, didn’t you? You wanted to see it bleed – you want them all to bleed…_

“I don’t – I didn’t – “ Harry can’t find the words to say, doesn’t know how to defend what he has done when his brother his looking at him with such _disgust_ and hatred; when Ron looks _terrified_ of him and the girl, Granger, is huddled in a corner, crying. He doesn’t even get a chance to flee from the scene when the Professors and Headmaster fell upon them. He opts to say nothing, really, because he does not think they would believe him if he told them it was in self-defense; not with the way Fleamont was describing his actions.

“He killed it, sir,” Fleamont says to Dumbledore, and the old Headmaster looks at slaughtered troll with a grave expression. “He just came out of nowhere and said this word, I can’t remember it and he – “

“Mister Potter, that is enough,” snapped Professor McGonagall. “You’re equally at fault here. What on earth were you thinking?” she demanded on the pair. “You two should count yourselves lucky that you weren’t killed!”

Professor Snape gives Harry a swift, piercing look, and Harry wilts further.

“Please, Professor McGonagall,” came the small voice of Granger who had looked up from her huddled position in the corner. “They came – Ron and Fleamont came looking for me.” She stands to her feet, shaken. “I went looking for the troll because I – I thought I could deal with it on my own because I’ve – I’ve read all about them.” She glances over at Fleamont and Ron. “If they hadn’t found me, I’d be dead now.”

While McGonagall both berates and recognizes the foolish bravery of her Gryffindors, Harry himself was under the scrutiny of both the Headmaster and Snape. Dumbledore himself, it seemed, was at a loss for words. When he finally gathered his wits, it was to instruct Snape to escort Harry back to Ravenclaw tower.

 _There’s blood on my shoes_ , Harry thinks as he trailed behind the Potions Master. _There’s blood on my shoes and I’ve just killed a living creature. They’re really going to kill me now. They won’t forgive this – they’ll never forgive this. I’ve done something bad. I’ve done something bad._

“Breath, Mister Potter,” says Professor Snape and Harry’s head snap up to lock eyes with the man. His distress must have been evident – why else would Snape say such a thing to him.

“Sir,” Harry starts, licking his dry lips. “Before – I hadn’t intended to – I mean, it wasn’t my intention – “

“Do not be discouraged by his claims,” Snape interjects and Harry stares at him, lips shaped in an ‘o’ of surprise. “Not many would do what you did. It was a commendable act of bravery, Mister Potter. Never forget that.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	6. Revenge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Compared to my earlier chapters, this one is far shorter. I didn't like how it came out in the least, but hey - it's an update after nearly a year. I'm getting back into the grove of things and will try to update as regularly as possible. Perhaps once every two weeks? Anyway, to those of you who stuck around for this, the long awaited 6th chapter is here. Thanks for reading!

 

> Chapter Six

**Revenge**

 

A commendable act does not necessarily constitute awe or even gratitude for that matter. Nobody cared that an eleven-year-old had, somehow, managed to take down a fully-grown mountain troll on his own. It didn’t matter to them that he had, not only, defended himself, but also his fellow First Years from harm. No, rather than being praised for his quick thinking and _saving_ Boy Wonder, Harry found himself on the receiving end of harsh and unfair treatment. The string of attacks started shortly after a rumor had spread about that he’s been practicing Dark Magic since he was old enough to speak – which was a load of rubbish, and while Harry was adamant that it was his brother that was going around telling lies, he had no way of proving it. 

The first jinx to hit him was directed at his back when he was leaving the Great Hall after dinner, resulting in him being unable to speak for the rest of the evening, as he had no one he could go to perform the counter-jinx, and all the Professors weren’t around to help.

On Saturday, someone swapped his soap with a gag bar that turned into worms when he got it wet. That following Sunday, he went through the half the day without noticing that someone had turned the Ravenclaw crest on his robes to read, “Faggot” – he’d only realized this after his brother, in his amusement, pointed it out to him. At dinner, someone hit him with a Tripping Jinx, which threw him into Marcus Flint, the Slytherin Quidditch captain. Flint shoved him away, and Harry fell to the ground, hard, in front of the entire school.  A roar of laughter followed him out the Great Hall, face inflamed with rage.

On Monday when he’d walked into the Great Hall for breakfast, his robes were charmed, hexed, _something_ to start yapping like a dog whenever he moved, so he had to go change, resulting in him being late for his first class. Tuesday, he received a Howler. Several people had shouted into it at the same time since he couldn’t recognize any of the voices, but it was embarrassing nonetheless as everyone turned to watch as the Howler continued to scream a cacophony of angry, taunting sounds. At lunch, Terry Boot distracted him while someone slipped a potion into his drink that had him hallucinating all afternoon. It was after this that Harry realized that it wasn’t just First and Second Years involved in this, Upperclassmen were taking part of this as well.

Harry knew his assailants were Gryffindor, and a handful of them third and fourth years, just as he knew that it was Fleamont who was behind these strings of attacks. It was only after he’d caught another Tripping Jinx on Wednesday on the top of the second-floor main staircase, between classes, that he knew he would have to do something about his brother. If an older Hufflepuff boy hadn’t caught him, looking alarmed as he frantically asked if Harry was alright, Harry knew he would have done a header right down them. As he made his way to his next lesson, contemplating how he’d handle Fleamont, Harry realized that someone had charmed his boots to _fart_ whenever he took a step, which was so absurd that he started laughing in the middle of the corridor and couldn’t stop. Padma looked at him as if he’d lost his mind, and Harry laughed harder at her incredulous expression. Professor Flitwick came across him long after she’d left, laughing with tears streaking down his face, and sent him to the Hospital Wing. It turned out he’d been hit with a Hysteria Hex, an insidious Dark spell that waited until the victim started laughing, and prevented them from stopping; it inspired tears, then irrational fear.

 _From the start, I should have done something to stop this_ , Harry thought as he fell into an exhausted slump on his bed, eyelids heavy. He should have handled his brother from the start, rather than leaving everything to chance and fate – everyone saw him as a victim now, someone to shove around. He balled his hands into a fist, teeth grinding together harshly. _He’ll pay for his._

Come Thursday, Harry couldn’t go more than a few steps between classes without being hitch by a Pinching Jinx or a spell that left him scratching viciously at his skin, feeling as if insects were crawling all over him. A truth serum was slipped into his drink at dinner time, which resulted in him answering a series of mortifying questions about himself in the Common Room until he ran from the room, a roar of laughter in his wake. Professor Flitwick came upon him sometime later and assisted the poor boy. Eventually, Harry concluded that enough was enough. Whatever revenge he decided to take had to _impressive_ and _public_ , or they would never leave him be.

* * *

 

It was nearing eleven when Harry made his way out of the Infirmary. Madam Pomfrey had managed to clear up the blisters that had sprouted all over his face — a result of a nasty potion being thrown onto him when he was on his way from the lavatory. There was still some light scarring, but she’d reassured him that it would clear up within a few hours. As he was making his way back to his common room, Harry stumbled upon a strange altercation between Professor Snape and Quirrell.

“Mind yourself, Quirrell,” Snape said, “you wouldn’t want to make an enemy of me.”

“I – I don’t know what you are – what you are t-talking about, S-Snape …” stutters Quirrell, horribly flushed under the venomous scrutiny of the Potions Master.

“Do not think me a fool, Quirrell. You know perfectly well what I mean.”

The ambiguity of the conversation left Harry wondering what exactly had transpired between the two professors for Quirrell to walk away with a meek nod. It was as he was turning away to resume his walk back to the common room that Harry failed to notice Snape looming behind him. It was very disconcerting, in truth. He hadn’t been alone with Potions Master since the troll incident, and as he faces the man the dark expression on his face did little to ease Harry’s nerves.

“Mister Potter,” Snape says in a low, oily voice that sends a shudder down Harry’s spine. “You are out of bounds.”

“Sir?” Harry said in a small, tight voice.

“It’s well past curfew, as I’m sure you’re aware. Why are you not in your dormitory?” Snape asked, leaning forward. “For that matter, what happened to your face?”

“It’s nothing, sir,” Harry mumbles, shifting uncomfortably under the heavy examination of the Head of Slytherin. “Madam Pomfrey gave me a note – “

“I will escort you back to your common room,” stated the dark-haired man, leaving no room for argument on the boy’s part.

Harry nods mutely, walking beside the man in silence. Several times he came close to asking what happened to the man as he was limping with a grim expression set on his face. When they arrived at the door, Snape lingered for a moment, as if wanting to say something as well. After an innumerable pause, however, the dark-haired man bid him a goodnight and sauntered off. Left to his own accord, Harry could only watch as the Potions Master rounded the corner and vanished from sight, feeling as though he had missed an opportune moment with the man.

* * *

 

The chance to put his revenge in motion would present itself during flying lessons.

When the appointed time arrived, and the First Years made their way out to the Quidditch pitch for their first flying lesson, Harry ignored the hissed insults and taunting jabs thrown his way in favor of keeping an eye on his brother. Brooms were laid out and waiting by the time they arrived, and Madam Hooch appeared a moment later. Her hair was shorter was short and spiky, and with her yellowish eyes, it made her look like some bird of prey.

“Well, what are you all waiting for?” She barked. “Everyone stand by a broomstick. Come on, hurry up.”

There were four rows of brooms, one to nine, and there was a bit of a scuffle between the Gryffindor’s and Slytherin’s as they fought for the best broom. Harry secured a spot between a bushy-haired Muggleborn girl and Neville Longbottom, opposite of his brother and Ron.

“Stick out your right hand over your broom,” called Madam Hooch at the front, “and say ‘Up!’”

“Up!” shouted the others.

Harry glanced down at his once before it shot up into his hand at once, one of the few that did so. The Gryffindor girls raised an inch off the ground before rolling over, Longbottom’s had gotten halfway to his hand, and then wandered off course and floated to his knee. Harry heard Weasley grumbling a litany of insults, snapping at the broom as if he was commanding a dog. It refused to obey.

Once everyone had their brooms in hand, Madam Hooch showed them how to properly mount without sliding off the end, and walking up and down the rows correcting their grip. “Now, when I blow my whistle, you kick off from the ground, hard,” she instructed. “Keep your brooms steady, rise a few feet, and then come straight back down by leaning forward slightly. On my whistle. Three… Two…”

Longbottom, visibly trembling with nerves and frightened by the thought of being left behind, pushed off hard before she blew the whistle and went high into the air.

“Come back down this instant Mister Longbottom!” Madam Hooch shouted, but Neville rose straight up like a cork shot out of the bottle, going twelve feet into the air, then twenty. Harry arched a brow when the scared boy looked down at the ground and making a guttered cry of alarm as he slips sideways off the broom. _Wham_. He fell down with an echoing thud and a nasty crack, and for a moment Longbottom remained face-down on the grass in a heap. His broomstick was still rising higher and higher, languidly drifting toward the Forbidden Forest and out of sight.

Madam Hooch hovered over Neville, her face as white as his.

“Broken wrist,” she mutters. “Come on, boy, it’s all right. Up you go.”

She turns to address the rest of the class.

“None of you is to move while I take Longbottom to the hospital wing! You leave those brooms where they are, or you’ll be out of Hogwarts before you can say ‘Quidditch’. Come on, dear.”

No sooner had they hobbled out of sight that Fleamont burst into laughter. “Did you see his face? He looked like he was going to piss himself.”

“That’s rich, coming from you,” Harry said conversationally. “Seeing as you still wet the bed.”

Fleamont rounded on him, a florid stain on his cheeks and expression livid. His grip on his broomstick tightened. “You’ve got some nerve, Squ – “

“Well one of us has to, seeing as you’re still carrying around that teddy bear mum gave you when you were three,” Harry interjected with an insouciant shrug of his shoulders. “What’d you name it again? Kiki?”

A chorus of laughter sounded from the gathered group, and despite Granger’s attempt to calm the situation – glaring at Harry in the process – Fleamont reached for his wand. Harry, prepared for this, didn’t need to even utter a word before he disarmed his brother of his wand and paralyzed Weasley in the same breath; the ginger, ever the loyal squire, was coming to his brother’s defense, per usual.

“You know what the difference between us is, Monty,” Harry continued as he levitated his brother upside, wand lazily twirling. “I’m not a coward like you. I don’t hide behind others and let them fight for me.” Flicking his wand to the left, he watched ruefully as his brother fell to the ground, sprawled out. “But I guess that’s one of the perks of being the Boy-Who-Lived. Even when you’re a spineless bed wetter, people still flock you.”

Walking to stand over his brother, Harry leveled his wand point to his forehead. Fleamont’s eyes widened, and there was a ripple of anticipation and anxiety from the crowd behind them. Harry squats to his level, smiling at his brother’s furious expression. “Your so-called friends won’t even help you, Monty,” he whispers, placing the tip of his wand against his brother’s temple. “You’re not as important as you’d like to believe. Even you are dispensable _. Tentaclifors_.”

It was both satisfying and disgusting to see his brother’s head turn into an engorged tentacle. The Slytherin’s burst into a fit of rowdy laughter while the Gryffindor’s gave an outraged cry of horror and disgust. Granger pushed him aside, the others following to assist Fleamont and Ron back towards the castle. Harry paid them no mind. Still giddy over his victory, small as it was, he couldn’t ignore the nagging voice that whispered of the repercussions to come once his parents caught wind of this.

 _Doesn’t matter_ , he concludes as he bypasses Malfoy. The blonde boy was watching him with a calculative glean in his eyes, and Harry wondered if he should be more worried about the fact that Lucius Malfoy’s son was taking an interest in him. _Out of the fire and into the pits_ , he muses, not surprised in the least that when Hooch returned, the Hufflepuff’s and his own housemates quickly explained that _he_ antagonized a fight and had harmed Fleamont and Weasley. Which was piss of them, but Harry wasn’t necessarily surprised.

He received detention with Hooch for a week for his behavior, but he didn’t care. The first part of his plan had been executed perfectly; now for the second portion of it.

* * *

 

By dinner, everyone had heard what happened between Harry and Fleamont. His brother still hadn’t returned from the Infirmary, and Weasley attempted to enact revenge on the behalf of his best mate, to which Harry retaliated with a vicious stinging hex that resulting in him pissing himself in the Great Hall. Flitwick had reprimanded him but didn’t dock any points as Weasley had attacked first.

During the meal, Harry could barely contain his glee when the students took notice of the slip of parchment paper on their cleaned plates when dessert had commenced. When he had first called upon the house-elf, Milly, Harry hadn’t expected her to respond. By some stroke of luck, she’d appeared in front of him in the deserted classroom on the fourth floor. She had been apprehensive when he’d given her the instructions to place copies of the parchments in each plate during the second course, but she’d conceded in the end.

Harry thought he was doing his brother a favor in this regard. Since they entered Hogwarts, all anyone wanted to know was about Fleamont and his likes, dislikes, and hobbies. So, he had supplied them with just that. Whether it was the fact that Fleamont still wets the bed or that sucks his thumb when nervous, and even that one instance when he was seven and took to wearing their mum’s clothes – Harry left nothing out. And judging by the laughter and exchange of parchments, the others seemed to find his gift to them very enjoyable.

Tucking away the last of his meal, Harry was the first to leave the Great Hall. He didn’t head for his common room right away. Taking a detour to the Hospital Wing, he pushed open the door and found Madam Pomfrey on her way to her office. “Back again with trouble, Mister Potter?” she asked kindly, pinching his cheek with a motherly affection Harry had grown fond of.

“No, ma’am,” he reassured her with a smile. “I actually came to check on my brother… and to apologize to him.”

“Well, he’s over there,” she pointed out, patting his cheek lightly. “Say your apologies and head off to bed, you hear?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

When she’d gone, Harry closed the curtain around his brother’s bed and sat on the edge of it. Fleamont was still quite out of it and didn’t rouse even as Harry loomed over him. He couldn’t see the appeal to his brother. He was a loud-mouthed boy, and wasn’t all that good-looking; perhaps he’d grow into a miniature James, just like everyone said he would – which wasn’t much better. His father wasn’t ugly in the least, but his condescending attitude left little to desire. Harry pitied the woman that ended up with him.

“ _Serpensortia_.”

The conjured serpent in long and thin, its black scales glimmering in the dim light of the oil lamp. Its mouth opens, needlepoint incisors bared as it hisses at the slumbering boy. Harry watches as it slides up the length of his brother’s torso, and Fleamont stirs, eyes opening a crack. He freezes when the snake hisses at him, hazel eyes flickering over to where Harry sat.

“You’re awake,” Harry murmurs. “That’s good.”

“You can’t,” Fleamont breathed. “Dad will – “

“Dad isn’t here,” Harry said, the point of his wand digging into his brother’s thigh. “He can’t help you. Not now.”

“You won’t get away with this,” Fleamont spat quietly. “You’ll pay for this, just watch. I’ll tell Dad – “

“Don’t interrupt me again, Monty,” Harry said, sighing in exasperation. His expression darkens, mouth twisted into a slight sneer. “You think you’re so _great_. You think having that ugly scar on your forehead gives you the right to lord over everyone. It doesn’t.” He gathers the serpent into his hand and rose to his feet. “You’ve always acted like you were better than me, but you aren’t. At least _I_ don’t get others to do my dirty work for me.”

“That’s because you have no one!” snarled Fleamont, upright and hands balled into a fist. “You have no one! Nobody wants you!”

Harry pauses there, his heart giving a sickening lurch. It’s true – he knows it, and so does Fleamont. His brother sneers at him, gloating and goading as he says. “You will always be alone.”

“That’s fine,” Harry finds himself saying in a hollow voice. He ignores the serpent coiling around his neck, its slitted eyes analyzing his face for a sign to attack. It found none, and Harry tries to ignore its soft hiss of _“Attack… master…”_ as he spares his brother a reproachable glance. “Being alone is better than being a coward.”

* * *

 

The first Quidditch game of the season was met with fanfare and jubilance. As the students began to make their way to pitch, Severus was deterred by Dumbledore who’d asked for a word. What the old man wanted with him at such at the time, Severus neither knew nor cared to ask as he made his way towards the Headmaster’s office. When he arrived, the Headmaster appeared deeply unsettled by something, Severus noted as the door closed behind him. Sweeping his robes aside, he sat before the man and wasted no time in saying, “Well, Dumbledore, what it is it that you wanted to say that couldn’t wait till after the game?”

Dumbledore chuckles merrily, wholly surprised by the Potions Masters interest in Quidditch. “I didn’t take you for the sort to appreciate the Quidditch,” he said lightly.

Severus scoffs. “Minerva and I have long running bet. She is adamant that her pride of delinquents will win the first game of the season.”

“She could very well be right,” Dumbledore said.

“Impossible.”

“Not entirely.” There was a pause before the wizen wizard said: “What are your thoughts on Harry Potter, Severus?”

Severus was, admittedly, a bit taken aback by the turn of conversation. Try as he might to studiously avoid the likes of Harry Potter, he often found his thoughts revolving around the boy. Compared to his brother, the child was quiet and kept mostly to himself. He was polite but did actively engage in a conversation with those in his cohort. Severus, though he would never say it aloud, found the boy more agreeable than his father and brother. “He is… a reserved boy. There is nothing more I can say about him.”

“I worry about him,” admits Dumbledore. “I fear, Severus, that he may be suffering unnecessarily.”

“Suffering?” parrots Severus, brow raised. “How so?”

A grim, forlorn expression marred Dumbledore’s features, and Severus is perplexed by the disheartened glimmer in his eyes. “The boy is suffering in his isolation. Neglect and indifference often do more damage than outright dislike, my boy. He needs a mentor, someone to look after him.” He sighs heavily, shoulders slouching as he peers at Severus over the rim of his spectacles. “I know I’ve asked much of you as is, Severus, but the boy needs someone he can turn to.”

“And you think that someone is me?” asked Snape incredulously.

“Severus – “

“I do not have time to babysit the boy,” Severus stressed, already on his feet and heading for the door. “If he cannot speak up for himself and behave like a normal child, the fault lies with him.”

“Severus, please.”

“If that is all, Headmaster, I will take my leave.”

* * *

 

 

Slytherin won the match by two hundred points, leaving Gryffindor at only eighty much to the chagrin of the lions and their supporters. As Slytherins left to celebrate their victory and the others returned to the castle in several forms of dejection, Harry was held back by a hand on his arm. His parents had come to witness the game as well, and as Fleamont was smothered by Lily’s affectionate kisses and hugs and Rosemary clung to his legs, James steered him toward the castle. Harry glanced over his shoulder to find Fleamont watching them with a grin spread across his face, gleeful at the thought of what awaited Harry.

While the strings of attacks had tapered off after Harry’s intervention, his brother had kept true to his word; he told his parents what Harry had done to him. Try as he might to steel himself for what was coming, Harry could not quell the nauseous unfurling in his stomach, the fear sets his heart galloping. His palms sweat and he stumbles forward when James shoves him into an abandoned classroom.

“Well, what have you got to say for yourself?” James demanded, wand in hand.  He places a silencing charm over the chamber, stalking forward to where Harry as cowered into a nook. His breathing came in harsh, hitched gasps of terror as the tip of James’s wand glowed a sickly crimson.

“Dad – “

“You are no son of mine,” spat James, curse firing at the boy’s unprotected face. He relishes in the wounded cry, the alarm and the pain that is evident in his large, pale eyes. The sight of the long, jagged cut adorning the boy’s cheek, the blood that seeps profusely as he cries, whimpering for _mercy_. “I warned you before, Harry. A toe out of line and you’ll be dealt with. Did you honestly think you could get away with hurting my son?”

“Please … I’m – I’m sorry.”

“Sorry doesn’t change a damn thing, boy,” James said flatly.

It could have lasted minutes or hours – Harry could no longer tell. He only knew pain, the white-hot scorch of cutting spells and hexes that left his skin blistered and black. He knew he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move as his body endured the torture and mind retreated into itself. He sobbed in relief when James stopped, all but babbling for forgiveness as the man looked him over. His father did the bare minimum in healing him, enough to not warrant questions, but the burn marks over his neck and arms didn’t fade, the cut on his cheek continued to bleed without end.

“Remember your place, boy,” James said, the heel of his foot grinding into the fragile bones of Harry’s hand.

He manages a weak groan of pain, teeth set when the bones snap. Harry doesn’t move from his position on the floor, curled into himself. The sound of the door opening and closing falls on deaf ears as he gives a shuddering breath before screaming. In pain, in fury. He screamed until his throat felt raw and bleeding until his tears burned his vision away and his heart clenched with a viciousness. _Never again_ , he thinks as he forces himself upright, hands damp with blood and sweat. _Never again. Never again. Never again._

“I’ll _never_ forgive you.”


End file.
